


something close to domestic, maybe

by MystxMomo



Series: its the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Kinda, Limb chopping, M/M, Multi, Unconventional Relationship, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24195445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystxMomo/pseuds/MystxMomo
Summary: They have a house in some old, small town. One built long before Future Foundation was created, but eventually taken, that had avoided the worst of despair. It’s a pretty thing. Old ivy leaves creeping up the sides, moss invading the roof. It’s near dreamy, reminding him of a time long since passed.He wonders if they deserve it. If they should bother staying.==In which despair sizzles out slowly, and Servant is left scrambling for stability.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: its the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784071
Comments: 258
Kudos: 495





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this ones a little self indulgent.  
> In a recent post I mentioned that I once considered doing an au where the remnants are not captured together for the neoworld program, exactly, but overtime their despair sort of simmers out. Because the apocalypse is a flash and the bang event, and playing with the idea that Kamukura and Komaeda's relationship would have to evolve with it.
> 
> and then I was like
> 
> Wait actually that ideas sexy I still want to play with that. 
> 
> I can't promise this will be too long of a fic. I'm currently looking at like, 10k max. But who knows, I'm well known for overshooting my wordcount.

They have a house in some old, small town. One built long before Future Foundation was created, but eventually taken, that had avoided the worst of despair. It’s a pretty thing. Old ivy leaves creeping up the sides, moss invading the roof. It’s near dreamy, reminding him of a time long since passed. 

He wonders if they deserve it. If they should bother staying.

Kamukura dismisses his concerns.

“Leaving is… unwise,” Kamukura tells him, blankly, “Suspicious. They have given us sympathy, and safety. To leave that behind immediately will put us on their radar, especially while your condition is so unstable.”

Servant narrows his eyes at him. He wonders how much he can argue with that. That right now, they are blending in with ants in a hill thats being repaired by the foot the stomped it. That they could easily disappear, and the rest of the colony would be none the wiser. They are, afterall, above them. That if they are not careful, the ant’s will find out that they are the foot that stomped them.

However, even he cannot dismiss the pain that comes with moving. He’s sore on a good day, fatigue on a bad. Even before _this_ , he’s slowly become more and more of a weight for Kamukura to carry. More of a burden. It is not his place to be a burden on a ma greater then god.

Kamukura is unharmed. Of course.

He’d laugh at the contrast between him or Kamukura, as if he needed it made anymore clear. Kamukura stands, stainless, and it makes his wounds all the more clear.

So he does not argue. He simply runs his fingers along the recently smoothed out wood, admiring the familiarity of it. It lacks the polish and shine of something mass produced. But it’s sturdy, and built to last, and most importantly, it's safe.

There’s bandaging on his arm where her’s use to be.

He did not choose to get rid of it. It had happened quickly, in a panicked moment. Rather, panicked for _him_. Kamukura had done it swiftly, taking a blade to through stitches and ripping her from him. 

He supposed it was time. After all, it had finally been starting to rot. The despair of it was almost becoming too much to bare, yet the hope of finally being free of her constraints not filling. It feels wrong not to have her attached to him, not to see her arm there when he looks down. To see nothing there, when he looks down.

Kamukura does not apologize for taking her from him.

“It was necessary,” he says, as he inspects the new wound. Not nearly as deep as it had been the first time he’d taken a piece off his own body, but Kamukura seems concerned about it regardless, “I do not believe Future Foundation would have been so sympathetic, were you to have a dead woman’s arm attached to yours. However limbless and bleeding... Sympathetic to those in pain..” 

He trails off, and does not finish talking. Instead, he gets that sort of.. distant look to his eyes. Servant has learned not to interrupt. 

He is correct, in that Future foundation hadn’t questioned them for a moment. He supposed it made sense. Bloodied and dirtied in the rubble, anyone could mistake them as victims of circumstance. Kamukura could be an excellent actor when he wanted to be, and Servant did not have to pretend to be shellshocked. 

“You are lucky it was something so movable,” Kamukura mentions, like a sidenote, “The Yakuza’s eye would have been harder to remove.”

“Lucky..” He repeats.

He wonders, momentarily, if dogs got to her arm. He’d want that, even if he’s not sure if he’d _like_ that.

“You are okay,” Kamukura says it like a statement. Servant, however, knows an inquiry when he hears one. He brings his fingers to the stump, runs them along the fresh wrappings. It doesn’t even hurt beneath it, anymore.

“It wasn’t as bad as taking my arm off!” He’s rather chipper when he reminds Kamukura of that. Kamukura doesn’t say anything, to that.

He doesn’t wear his collar as much.

It is not from a lack of desire to. He craves the feeling of weight, finds himself rubbing at where it should be. Perhaps more-so then the arm.

“It is suspicious,” Kamukura had told him, as he’d unlocked it for him, “Most people do not generally take well to the sight of someone walking around in a collar and chain,” and then, “... They have been looking at you oddly.”

For some reason, Kamukura sounds the slightest bit displeased by that.

Still. The feeling of constraint was one he craved above all else. Freedom was a slippery slope, a trap with bait in it ready to snap him in half when he stepped too close. It was something that would always remain just out of reach, something he could pretend to desire, but never truly seek.

He’s never deserved agency.

“I can still serve you?” The idea of Kamukura saying no is unnerving. He needs that purpose, needs to be kept. He needs to feel useful to someone, or something. He’s not sure how well he can handle a plan where he is purposeless. Where he can be disregarded so easily. Surely, he thinks, Kamukura would never. He’s gone through so much, proven himself time and time again. Surely he would not leave him to rot.

Yet he can never be so certain. For he, and he alone is aware of his own inferiority.

“... If that is what you so choose,” His answer is vague, as always. But Servant still finds comfort in it. His smile becomes less strained, with it.

“I can.. still wear it when we are alone?” Is his next proposition. He cannot decide if it is something mischievous, or something _importune_. Something he cannot stop himself from craving. It’s not despair inducing, exactly.

Kamukura’s holds the collar in his hands. He looks down at it as though he should break it.

“I will not stop you,” He eventually says, “Do not wear it outside our walls.” 

He should focus on the direct order he’s been given. On the euphoria of being so directly ordered. Instead..

 _Our walls_. It loops on repeat in his head, time and time again.

… What an odd way of phrasing it. 

Hm.


	2. sunflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They adapt.

He has a garden now. That’s nice. 

Truthfully, it is not entirely his. Someone must have been tending to it before they moved in, because the flowers are in full bloom, and the soil is soft to touch. 

It’s a pretty thing, despite this. Shades of mostly orange and yellow. It’s filled with Daylily’s and chrysanthemums, wildflower and weed. Some of the flowers struggle, and the food grows sour in certain parts. 

The flowers that do the best, however, are the sunflowers. They’re vibrant; full of color and life. They’ve been planted off to the side, in a patch to their own. 

“Sunflowers are extraordinarily strong, but have long roots, and need lots of space. I read it in a book. Did you know that Kamukura-kun?” He tells Kamukura, despite the fact that he _knows_ Kamukura already knows this. 

(Sometimes, he feels foolish. Like he should have perhaps not shared at all. He can’t bare to look the man in the eye as he shares this, occupying himself with the dirt and petals.)

But Kamukura humors him. Nods from where he sits, cross legs and observes from the shade on their porch. The legs of his pants are rolled up proper, sleeves had been quick to follow, and his head rests against the nearest column. 

Servants fingers dance along the petals, doe eyed at the plant he did not entirely help grow, “Do you think thats hopeful, Kamukura-kun?”

Kamukura tilts his head. Considers it.

“It is not hopeful, to be adaptable,” He decides, blankly. Servant carefully does not huff, turns his attention back to the plants. 

Hopefully, even he could manage to keep these alive. 

==

They have running water now. 

Clean running water, specifically. Despair has always kept resources for themselves. Enough to survive, but never enough to thrive. Water came out of the drains tainted an odd brown color, and even Kamukura seemed hesitant to drink it at times. 

But this water is clear, to the point of being pretty, crystal even, and Servant spends time drawing his hand through it as the bath fills.

“How shocked do you think Future Foundation would be?” He asks, arms draped loosely over the edge of the tub, “To know that they’re harboring _fugitives_.”

He says the word like it’s something secret. Like it’s something he’s not suppose to say outloud. 

Kamukura does not answer immediately. He rarely does. He can see clearly, in the reflection of the fogged up mirror that has been so carefully propped on the edge of the bath, that his eyes are closed in consideration. Perhaps even relaxation? The water here is hot, blisteringly so, especially after Kamukura did.. Something to fix the tank, “Case file 001,” He starts, as though reminiscent, “Kamukura Izuru, to be euthanized for participation in, orchestration of The Tragedy, and leading Ultimate Despair,” He stalls, tilts his head and raises a finger. 

(Servant wonders what he’s seeing, in this moment. Wonders how the dots connect in his head. He wishes, so badly, to understand him. To know how he works. Even after all this time, he does not.)

“Further charges include participation in the Tragedy of Hopes Peak, and the slaughter of multiple personnel working as staff at Hopes Peak.”

“... You think they still care about that?”

“I do not think they let go easily, no.”

“Hm,” Servant extends his arms out, “... And me?”

Kamukura hands a comb back to him. Servant does his job without question, working shampoo through his hair with well practiced and comfortable ease.

“... Your crimes in Towa City are not to be laughed at,” He finally determines, tilts his head to fall into the lull that comes with sorting through his hair.

“That’s all??” He doesn’t want to complain, when he says that. But it certainly comes out like one. He was expecting at least a little more than that. Perhaps even a case file, knowing his own crimes.

“You are careful,” Kamukura tells him, tone blank, “And lucky. Towa City was your biggest show, and your greatest mistake. If they will pin anything on you, it will be that,” His gaze finally opens. His reflection in the mirror is near indistinguishable now, but his gaze pierces through the fog with ease, “Who knows. Perhaps they will pin the blame on the children instead.”

Servant isn’t quite sure how he feels about that possibility. 

It’s not good.

==

Kamukura sleeps a lot. 

It’s something he’d known, but now that they have little to do it becomes exceedingly clear. He works in cycles. Sleeps for 20 odd hours, is up for 36. It seems disproportionate. Servant wouldn’t be foolish enough to consider himself to be _smart_ , certainly not smarter than Kamukura by any stretch of the means. But even he knows that it is nowhere near close to normal.

He sleeps a lot too, is the other thing.

It was something he was able to work past when they were moving, but catches up to him with force now that he can rest. He sleeps for 13 hours. Then 10. Then 16. A debt he needs to pay, but has always been hesitant to follow through on. But his body is heavy now, mind is unease, and it seems like anytime he is not working he is sleeping.

They used to sleep in shifts. Always had someone awake, always had someone watching. And now, more than ever they should be watching. Anticipating the day that they’re realized, and caught.

However, it’s hard not to be lulled in by a false sense of security. By the idea of safety, and the entanglement of limbs. Sometimes. Often. They sleep together. The curtains drawn as tight as they can be, bed on the darkest side of the room. 

(If they wanted to be truly safe, their bed would be next to the window. Easy to climb out of if they were cornered, easy to break if needed)

==

Sometimes he stands outside and admires the way the wind travels across wildflowers and silvergrass. There’s a field of it, right behind their house. The town they live in is small, afterall. Spread out. The nearest neighbor is a dirt road away, hidden by the tree’s and hills. He can see the main city on the horizon. Within reach, but far enough for loneliness. 

“It really is amazing, isn’t it?” Servant tells him, when he’s finally settled down to sit next to him, “How hope overcomes?”

“I do not know if it is _hope_ ,” Kamukura repeats the sentiment like a mantra, gaze scanning over the field like he’s looking for something in it.

Servant does not want to argue with him. It’s not his place to. Besides, even he knows better than to dig at the hopeless in search of a miracle. He does, however, curl up against him just a bit closer.

“When I squint,” Servant eventually says, when Kamukura goes too long without saying anything, when he looses himself in his searching, “It looks sort of like the ocean.”

“Hm.”

“We should go to the ocean again some day,” He stretches, and a few bones crack down his spine, “That would be nice, don’t you think?”

“ _Hm…_ ” Kamukura repeats, more considerate this time.

The sun is setting behind them. The word glows in shades of red and orange.

He doesn't get an answer.

==

The thing is. Other times, he’s selfish.

He slips into bed with Kamukura, laces their fingers, and simply watches him sleep. 

It’s not that he thinks Kamukura will mind. They share a bed, afterall. Have really shared much more than just that. He just can never get over the feeling that he might be doing something wrong. That he hasn’t asked for permission, and therefore should be in the wrong. Despite this, he knows Kamukura has a tendency to watch him sleep as well. Is far more shameless in that regard. Sometimes he’ll wake up with him sitting there, back to the headboard, gaze burning into him.

But that was normal, for Kamukura. Observation was normal for Kamukura. That meant things were okay.

Kamukura, he’s observed, has an average face. Pretty, but average.

When he does not lace their fingers together, he allows his fingers to trace his features instead. If he squints, he can imagine Kamukura becoming just another face in the crowd. A corpse he'd passed on the street. Nothing special, beyond their death. He can imagine, for a moment, the man as someone _normal_.

He tries imagining him with short hair. It’s almost laughably hard. 

==

“Do you think they’re happier like that?” Kamukura asks one day, looking at the sunflower patch with a dazed look to his eye. It comes out of nowhere. Kamukura is odd, like that, “Do you think they know what happiness is. Or are they content with ignorance. That this is all they’ve ever known?”

Servant doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He decides not to answer.

==

The only time he’s ever woken Kamukura up is when he indulged, perhaps, too much. Allowed his hand to drift forward and brush his hair away, to trace along the line of a scar he did well to hide. He wonders about it, sometimes. Knows it’s not his business, but can’t help but let his curiosity slip through the cracks.

He wonders if what Kamukura has is _shame_. It’s hard to imagine him feeling such a thing.

There would have been a time that such a bold display of disobedience would have gotten him punished. At the very least, scolded. Where his investigation would have pushed a boundary that had been unspoken since they’d met.

Waking him means he’s been careless

“Sorry,” He mumbles, and draws his hand back. Draws himself back. He has more of an apology on his lips. That he’s a disgrace, should know his place, really what kind of Servant is he to step so far out of line?

Kamukura simply _looks_ at him, inhumanely still. Skips straight past wariness and exhaustion, as though he’s been alert the whole time. It’s almost unnerving. Searching for something in his gaze and finding nothing. 

Slowly, he settles back into place. Shoulders fall, and gaze goes half lidded. 

“Do not. Do that again,” Kamukura orders, and presses himself closer. Like he deserves to be rewarded with any amount of affection. Rewarded for waking him up.

He spends that day in bed with him, Kamukura tucked under his chin, watching speckles of dust dance in streams of sunlight.

He should be punished, he thinks, and closes his eyes to join him.

The room is stuffy, today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Most of the flowers named in this chapter are native to japan, and considered hardy and easy to grow in even atrocious soil. The sunflower is an exception to the first point, but not the second. That said, sunflowers take up a lot of nutrients when they grow (o // o)
> 
> \- Yeah. Both of those sleep habits are possible. Humans are weird bro.
> 
> \- I apologize if this ever reads weirdly. I'm getting a little experimental, with the technicality of how I present stories. Oops.


	3. literary devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servant cuts Kamukura's hair, but only a little.

Servant sometimes walks in to the scatterings of chicken scratch on papers and half finished blockings of code on the computer. Kamukura’s mind works at a tier above his own, but even Servant can tell when the writings become half hearted. He can always make his talents work for him. He’s hope, afterall (“What I was created for, afterall.”) 

But sometimes he stalls. Sometimes he’s _bored_. 

Servant isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing to make money, exactly. Something to do with coding. With the foundation. It’s a risky game he’s playing, but one he’d agreed to when they’d picked this life. Kamukura had tried explaining it once or twice, but Servant has nearly entirely lost his ability to focus on it. What he does understand, however, is the intent after the fact.

“Good enough to be efficient. Not good enough to be talented,” Kamukura had mumbled, gaze flickering at the screen, “A challenge in itself.”

If Servant had looked close enough, he could fool himself into thinking that the idea humored Kamukura. That for a moment, he’d found joy in something.

He’d like that, he thinks. Kamukura being happy. 

==

Now.

Kamukura does _not_ like having his hair cut. 

Servant has known this fact nearly as long as he’s known Kamukura. Of course, it’s something easy to assume. Very few people could stand to have their hair as long as Kamukura does.

It’s almost unreasonable. Servant does not use that word lightly. Not with Kamukura. But the man will just let it grow, until he’s treading over it, allowing it to drag behind him on the ground. 

(It’s easier now, in a way. The only thing he’s dragging over is wood floors and carpet, instead of blood and ash. He _knows_ he prefers that.)

==

Sometimes when Kamukura is working he’ll allow Servant to join him.

Servant takes his place under him. He sitting one leg folded over another, rests his head on his knee or his thigh or whatever he can reach. Sometimes he’ll wrap his arms around his waist, or his leg. Kamukura will spare a hand to run his fingers through his hair, or _let_ Servant intertwine their fingers, or even just rest it on his head. There’s no focus to it, the action mindless. Mechanical. It can’t be for Kamukura’s benefit, which means it has to be for Servants, and it’s just another inconvenience he selfishly indulges in.

Other times, Kamukura ignores him entirely, too focused on whatever he works on to bother. He should prefer that. He does not.

==

Servant _likes_ Kamukura’s hair. Not that it matters what he thinks, but he does like it. It’s soft, these days. He likes washing it for him, likes brushing it for him. He likes helping to maintain. Likes feeling _useful_.

==

There are times when he’s pulled up into Kamukura’s lap instead.

It’s usually when he’s close to sleeping. Kamukura doesn’t like him sleeping on the ground. Servant would be fine curling around his chair like a dog, drifting off on the ground to the sound of rapid keyboard clicking. Instead, Kamukura always takes notice. 

Kamukura will sigh, always sigh (Because there are just some things Servant can never remember to listen to. Some orders he wants to obey, but cannot as he’s slipping to sleep). He will reach down to gather him up, shift, adjust him so that he is not in the way. He imagines it to be an impressive feat. Not lifting him, but adjusting him. Servant is mostly limbs. All bones, no skin. He finds the idea that Kamukura might be comfortable in this position hard to believe. But Kamukura holds him close, keeps him close all the same.

==

“It has not been short since The Kamukura Project,” Kamukura tells him, when he finally settles in and allows him to have a go at taming some of the length.

Kamukura has not told him many details about the Kamukura project. He knows about it, of course. Enoshima had loudly and joyously bragged about swaying Hopes Peaks passion project to the side of despair. 

(He could smile, now. Because he’d swayed him back. At least, he likes to think he has. How true that is remains to be seen. But whatever this is, it’s not despair.)

However, he has not been told details. He does not deserve them, nor does he need them. Something bad enough to leave that much of an impression on Kamukura, of all people, is not something he wants to know the details of.

“I do not want it too short,” Kamukura tells him, and crosses his legs in the proper sort of way he does. 

  
  


==

There has been once, when he was in the awkward, in between stages of wakefulness and sleep, that Kamukura leaned down and rested his forehead to Servant’s. His arms had wrapped around him, tangling together in a loose mess of limbs. He remembers the touch of his hair brushing against his arms, and how closely he’d been pulled. He remembers, distinctly, how long the touch had lingered. That he had perhaps fallen asleep like that. 

He remembers it being intimate. He remembers feeling loved.

  
  


==

“Historically speaking, samurai would cut their hair when they abandoned their old lives. More often than not, to become part of the lower class,” Kamukura mentions this out of nowhere as he’s cutting it. Shifts, which is only notable because he’d been otherwise still, “This translated to media of our era, where cutting one’s hair was meant to represent a major life change.”

“Well,” Servant says. Pauses, to come back to himself, “Of course?” Because he is unsure as to why he’s bringing this up. Because he’s not sure why it matters.

“If that's the case. Would keeping their hair represent holding onto the past? Clinging onto deadweight?” 

“I don’t know,” Servant admits, bemused, “I think it’s just a metaphor, Kamukura-kun.”

“Hm..” Kamukura tilts his head back in thought, “A thought for another day, perhaps.”

They’re quiet.

“...You know, I _could_ kill you like this,” Servant mentions, from his spot on the ground. He’s cutting just around where his hair meets the floor, carefully balancing clumps of hair over his arm to get some semblance of uniform throughout it. It’s not really.. working, but thats an issue for future them to figure out, “Maybe cut your achilles heels. Or stab your neck.” 

Kamukura gives him a look he thinks is suppose to be curious, “You have multiple chances to kill me,” Kamukura points out, like he doesn’t know that himself.  
“I do,” he agrees, pleasantly. 

“You won’t.”

“I won’t!” Servant bites his tongue as he concentrates, “But I _could_.”

“Hm,” Kamukura closes his eyes again, and relaxes back, “A cut to the achilles heel would not kill on it’s own. Simply disable.” He says.

Servant adds that to his pool of knowledge. He cuts away another clump of hair.

==

He’s sure he hallucinated that last one.

==

“... It is not cut well,” Kamukura tells him, though does not seem surprised.

“In case Kamukura-kun forgot, I only have one hand,” He’s carefully not smug about that point. Says it like he’s answering a question about the weather, like he’s reporting another bit of information he just happened to overhear from the others. Kamukura is not phased by it.

“Hm,” Kamukura combs his fingers through his own hair, collects the scissors from his hands, the strands with the other.

Servant should feel guilt. Some kind of guilt, that Kamukura trusted him enough to let him cut his hair, and he’d butchered it. Instead, he watches the magnetic display that comes with Kamukura’s work, and feels a smug bit of satisfaction in knowing he’d gotten his way.

He feels guilter about that, then about messing it up in the first place.

His hair ends up stopping a little above his knees by the end of it all. It’s the shortest he’s ever seen his hair. He thinks it might just count for something.


	4. music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servant thinks about the past

Despair still has control over the airwaves.

It was handed over to them after Enoshima’s death, expected of them to do the proper upkeep. Kuzuryuu and Nevermind had taken full advantage of it in their petty game of politics. Koizumi had taken pride in having her documentation of the world projected at such lengths. But no one, no one directed it with such pride and joy as Mioda Ibuki. Her influence in despair had been efficient, and massive. There was no escapism in a world where even music had been stolen away. Where the only thing that played with the remixes of screams and slaughter.

“WELCOME to MIODA’S variety power hour!” She would always start off the same, screaming into the mic with a horse voice and loud laughter, “Tonights audio samples were GRACIOUSLY donated from the Ito family in Kamakura! I’d say no one got hurt, but well. You’ve been here long enough, you know how this goes,” He hear’s her slam her feet up onto the desk, “I’m especially fond of this piece. There’s just something about this girls screaming that brings out the _despair_ of it all.”

He’s been in her recording studio. It’s a lonely little thing. She’s set it up so that she doesn’t need help running it, can isolate herself for hours on end as she works.

Servant knows, with certainty, that Ibuki Mioda is an extrovert.

==

Here's the thing

Anything can be used as a weapon. 

He knows this from experience. Has personally used anything from shards of rock to unbroken bottles to pens and paperweights and twine and thread. He had to be creative, in despair. Had to come up with ways to defend themselves, when supplies ran low

And when worst came to worst, well. He always had his chain. Has used it to choke people out on more than one occasion. He almost always had a one shot pistol, tucked into the first pocket of his jacket.

However, this fact is especially true for Kamukura. 

He’s seen him use circumstance alone to kill someone. Seen him use a coat hanger, shoe laces, blankets and pillow cases. He thinks Kamukura could make use of anything. He’s made for survival.

He’s seen him use his bare hands, snapped the neck of a man backwards in one try. He always manages in one try.

(They’re the same hands that touch him so fondly, that explore his body so indulgently. There’s something appealing about that. Knowing a man that could kill so easily gives him sympathy. That he doesn’t give this to anyone else.

To know that he’s special to someone.)

==

However, sometimes, at night, the channel will switch.

“She’s playing Mozart tonight,” Kamukura notes. Servant reaches over to turn up the radio a few notches, and closes his eyes to listen, “How unlike her.”

It’s a recent change. Something he noticed when him and Kamukura began to distance themselves from despair. Not gone, but certainly not there. Kamukura use to clean up their mistakes. Use to come at the drop of a pin. They’d made their way half way down the country at three am one day, because Sonia had decided to surprise visit them, and Pekoyama did not want to risk her and Kuzuryu going at it. 

It all seemed so petty now. It’s hard to imagine, looking back, that they’d been the ones to do so much damage.

“... It’s sort of like this, right?” Mioda says, and he thinks he hears exhaustion in her voice. She’s been at it all day. She’s always at it, of course, but she always sounds particularly exhausted at the three am slot, “Say you’ve trapped yourself in a cycle. Any cycle, really. You got the ladies, you got the glamour. But then you step back for a moment, and you look at it.”

She sounds drunk. He thinks she might be.

“Five.. Six? Yeah. Let's go with Six. Six Years has passed since you graduated. And you think back on it, and It’s sort of like. You know,” He imagines her tilting her head to this, “Same shitty friends. Same Shitty recording studio. Same music, all the time. It’s like getting cold water dumped on your head. It kinda fucking sucks.”

He wonders how much trouble she’ll get in, if Kuzuryu were to listen in at the wrong time. He doesn’t think it’s suppose to be his business anymore. He doesn’t think she cares anymore.

==

“If I may be so out of line.. Which Ultimate do you think it is? That lets you kill so effectively, I mean.” The first time he’d asked, he’d been laying on a mattress, watching Kamukura check the pulse of the the carcass at his feet. They’d gotten cornered for the first, and last, time in a hotel room. He still wonders, to this day, if they’d bee set up.

“Solder. Assassin. Spy. Yakuza. Analysis,” Kamukura is mumbling it, half heartedly, “Nurse-”

“Nurse?”

“Know where to hit.”

“Ah.”

He’d spoken like that, back then. Short sentences. They’d been together long enough that Kamukura did not want to ignore him, but found no patience in entertaining him. Had stilled entirely under his touch, where even getting a twitch out of him meant he was doing something right. Had looked at him with a hollow, empty gaze. 

He’d still had both of his hands, back then. Kamukura had still been so _detached_ , back then. Had looked at the world with a half dazed gaze, had looked at Servant like he was nothing.

He likes it better now. He likes how familiarity flickers in Kamukura’s gaze when Servant reaches up to touch him. How, when they lay together, he can find comfort instead of fascination in Kamukura’s breath on his skin. How he can mistake Kamukura’s looks for fondness. 

He does not deserve it. But he’s selfish, because he likes it.

==

Dancing with Kamukura is awkward, and stilted.

It's impressive, of course. Everything he does is impressive. Each step is perfect, each motion ingrained and instinctive. 

But there’s no joy in his action. He would be foolish to expect as much, but it’s still awkward to know. It’s nothing he’d ever want to bring up to Kamukura. Nothing he’d ever force him to know. But it settles in the back of his mind.

Even gods had to have flaws, he supposed.

“.. You are not satisfied?” Kamukura notes. 

"No," he tells him, and it’s honest. Because really, anything Kamukura could give him would be satisfying. Even if it’s not what he wants out of this, it’s still satisfying. 

He’s still satisfied. 

"It's incredible. You're incredible. Thank you."

He wonders how he would have reacted in the past. If he knew that one day, he’d be dancing hand in sour, broken hand with hope himself.

He’s not sure he’d have believed himself. He’s not sure if he’d want to.

Servant presses closer to his master, and loses himself to the sound of piano notes and white noise.

==

“I think I was born to be devoted to you,” He tells Kamukura, a different night, loopy on pain medication and cold pills. He does not remember why he’d taken so many. He thinks he remembers getting stabbed, and maybe getting sick. Could have been an ugly mix of both. The results had been the same, no matter the reason. Servant had laid exhausted like on a musty couch, while Kamukura tended to him in smooth, robotic motions. It had been horrific to him, at the time. He was the Servant, not Kamukura.

It was just humorous, now. He still feels oddly about it at times. Allowing Kamukura to take care of him. But not nearly to the degree he had back then. Not to the point of anxiety, and uncertainty. 

Kamukura’s hands had stalled over the wound, his brows furrowing, “I… do not understand.” 

He does not say this like it’s a question.

“Fate groomed me to serve you!” He answers him like it is one, easily, gaze flickers to the ceiling, large smile on his face, “It makes sense, wouldn’t you agree? I was created to love you. To adore you. Isn’t that something wonderful? To be created to _love_ and _worship_ ,” Servant stalls, raises his right hand to the light, “I’m sorry they gave you something so pathetic. That you must take care of me.”

Servant would sigh after that. He had not been tried hard enough in his life time. Had not been trained enough for a master as grand as hope. Perhaps he should have been. 

Kamukura does not answer him. It’s silent, while he finishes working on his wound.

“I want to understand you,” Servant tells him, to break it, “I understand her. I do not understand you. Would you grant me that one day, Kamukura-sama?”

Kamukura hadn’t answered him about that, either.


	5. kintsugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servant gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me make the joke for you.  
> Haha Coronavirus.
> 
> There. Now you don't have to.

So. Servant gets sick again.

This is not rare by any stretch of the means. Servant’s health has always been particularly horrid, immune system has been wrecked for years. Really, coming downstairs to face Kamukura, obviously red faced and dizzy, only to immediately be sent back upstairs was far more _humiliating_ then getting sick in the first place.

Kamukura takes care of him like it’s a job.

It’s not particularly loving, and not at all nurturing. He takes stock of Servant’s condition with stiff hands (Rests on his head, then his cheek) and a dazed expression (Running through the information he has, taking new information in), eyes him to make sure he’s not planning anything particularly stupid. (Because Servant has tried to get around care more than once, will probably try to again in the future.)

Kamukura makes sure he actually takes whatever medicine he gives him (Servant use to avoid it, but he’s learned better of that), makes sure his condition isn’t tracked to get worse. 

Then he will leave him to sleep it off, drawing the curtains tighter for him on his way out. 

==

There was one winter, a recent one, where the snow piled especially high, and the temperatures got particularly cold, and the two of them had essentially been blocked inside of the abandoned townhouse they’re staying in. He remembers the draft in the corner annoying him, and remembers Kamukura starting a fire so the cold wouldn’t take them entirely.

He’d gotten sick then, too. More than just a fever. The sort of sick where he was vomiting up more than he was keeping down, whether it be food or water, and the world had passed around in him a haze of fever dream’s and stuffy blankets. The water there was barely running, let alone hot, and the only medicine they had was what Servant carried around on him. So he’d been fever ridden, sweaty, and just barely able to breath under it all.

He thought, with certainty, that he was going to die.

Servant didn’t fear death. Still doesn’t, to this day. Death meant release from an ugly, life long battle of luck, of the last few years, where Hope and Despair mixed desperately in an attempt to take him. It meant that he was freed from her bidding, no longer attached to the strings fate cut for him. Death would be freeing, both lucky and unlucky, and it would be in his fate to die through sickness

Kamukura had seemed uncertain, despite this. 

Kamukura’s nerves did not come in the form of pacing, and jitters. Instead, it was still. Collected. Questionable if they were nerves at all. Kamukura had sat in the chair that had been shifted off to the side, staring with folded hands, watching with silent breath. He hadn’t done much to help him. Had let Servant have the bed, made sure that they would be safe. He’s fulfilling his end of the deal, doing enough to keep his servant alive. Taking some kind of interest in watching him fight it off.

But he doesn't do more than that. Generally doesn’t, not normally. 

  
  


==

The fever is especially bad this time.

He’d considered that it wasn’t more than an end of summer cold. Nothing horridly dangerous, but would put him out for a day or so. But the fever spikes higher, and he’s not coughing. He considers it might be the flu. Then he considers that he doesn’t need to know, that he just knows he feels _bad_.

He tries to disobey. Attempts to flip through one of the few books he owns (Their collection is growing) attempts to clean even somewhat. But his eyes blur over the words, and he dizzies himself when he attempts to stand. So, he’s forced to curl up on the side of the bed, wrap himself in their blanket, and drift between the stages of daze and sleep.

(He remembers being in the hospital when he was younger, drifting in and out of sleep to the sound of a television adverts at the lowest volume, the chatter of nurses.)

When Servant is sick, he always has nightmares. 

Vivid, nasty things. The kind that he wakes up forgetting everything but the feeling of anxiety and dread, and has cold sweat dripping down his neck.

There isn’t a lot that unnerves him these days though. He’s seen and lived through tragedy his entire life. He’s children dismembering carcasses with the glee of cutting off doll hair. Has seen human vivisection done in person, bodies lining the streets with single bullet through their head. He’s seen buildings crushed and blown to bits, flesh crushed to mush and left to decay.

He’s experienced a plane crash, and remembers the ash and smoke and screams that come with it.

He’s seen and lived death his entire life. It’s a wonder what could possibly shake him anymore.

He wakes up sobbing and alone, knowing the weight of his worthlessness. 

==

Servant didn’t call to him. He never does, not verbally. But Kamukura seem’s to know when he wants him to come. He remembers, around it all, Kamukura slipping into bed with him. Holding him close. Servant hadn’t the strength to protest, nor the will. He hadn’t even the energy to worry. He hated the idea of getting Kamukura sick, of course, but in that moment Kamukura was a source of comfort and stability like no other. He’d known, laying against Kamukura’s chest, under three different styles of blankets, that everything would be okay. 

==

Here’s the thing. 

Servant doesn’t cry. 

It’s something that’s been trained out of him by the very hand he’d taken.

“You’re beautiful like that, senpai!” She’d told him, reaching up to brush long nails against the skin of his cheek, “So beautiful.”

Smiling had made him _beautiful_. He’d never been called beautiful before. He hated that she was the first one to do so. That it had influenced him as long as it had, that she always knew what to do and what to say to get under his skin.

But it made sense. She was Despair. That’s what _Despair_ did. Easy to fall into, easy to be rewarded by. Easy to follow. 

So he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t frown. He smiles, thin lipped as it may be, through any pain and despair he may face. And it’s easier, much easier, when he knows that hope is something that will always overcome in the end.

And then it’s broken by a nightmare. Years of self control down the drain, all over a fever dream

==

He does wake up though.

He wonders if that event changed something in Kamukura. Servant is... dull, _moronic_ even, but he likes to think himself occasionally observant. He’d picked up on the change in Kamukura’s attitude after that.

Kamukura had always preferred to be a passive force. Had always allowed things to happen to him, and deal with the consequences later. He wanted to see the good and bad of the world. Any intervention happened as the result of a technicality. At a balance. He didn’t let Servant die, because Servant was useful to him. He gave Servant intimacy as recompense, for serving him, for getting information on other members of Ultimate despair, for loyalty and providing himself in his entirety.

He breaks their cycle. Stops Ultimate Despair from hurting him, shifts to catch him before he falls. Small things, that perhaps no one else would notice but him.

“I am bored of our game,” Kamukura mumbles, when he finally braves it enough to ask. Then, after a moment of taking in Servants white and pale struck face, decidedly adds, “Perhaps. Not of you,” in the exact same tone as his first statement. Like he’s being disregarded. Like it’s an obvious explanation. 

Servant doesn’t stop serving him, despite this. It’s the one thing he’s good for. What he’s meant to be. Kamukura does not stop him, and does not comment on it. And that’s fine. So long as Kamukura is still willing to yank him by the lead, so long as he keeps him around, it’s fine. 

He does very much wish he hadn’t gotten sick that night. 

==

He’s not sure why, but he seeks out Kamukura.

The action is thoughtless, and fever fueled. Any other day, he would not. Not over something like this. He’d never dare to present himself to Kamukura in such a state. 

But he thinks, Kamukura’s presence has fixed so much before. Has helped him to breath before. He’s stability. He’s the one consistent in Servant’s life, the one thing that his luck is unable to take. He’s above that.

He finds him in the kitchen.

Kamukura looks up at him from the pot he’s working over, gaze is already on him the doorway by the time he’s entered. He’s not surprised he’s here, it seems. He imagines he wasn’t subtle, wasn’t quiet in his arrival.

Yet there’s a moment after he takes stock of him. Where Kamukura opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Where he seems to genuinely, sincerely take stock of him. He… slowly, carefully, places down the spoon he’d been holding. Approaches, to grab hold of his chin, and tilt his head to match his watering eyes, and observe his shaking, trembling breath.

In that moment, he thinks. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Everything would be fine.

“.. Komaeda?”

It’s a question.

.

It doesn’t help.

Servant cries for the first time in front of Kamukura, and it feels like his world shatters.

Ugly, bitter sobs wreck his body. He’s not even sure why he’s crying. The dream feels distant now. Like something that has never existed in the first place. But it comes over him in a wave, strong enough to drag him backwards into the parts of his mind he’d long since forgotten, ensnaring him in tangles of emotion. 

He wonders if this is how Kamukura feels. If this is how he can’t feel.

Kamukura’s arms rest around him, and It’s awkward. Always is. He never seems sure of what to do with himself, and Servant has always known better than to bring it up to him. Then to remind him of a _failure_.

If Kamukura doesn’t know what to do, then Servant doesn’t know what to do. He’s always needed guidance. Isn’t good on his own.

Perhaps he simply isn’t any good.

He sobs harder. 

==

He brings that day up to Kamukura later, while he’s working on his garden again. He’s working out a particularly stubborn weed, trying to avoid allowing the needles to scratch up his hands by stabbing at it with the sharp end of a trowel.

Kamukura stalls in thought, like this isn’t something he’s thought about in a while. Perhaps like it’s not something he generally wants to think about. He also, Servant notes, stalls in step. He’s standing by those sunflowers, a basket of carefully clipped flowers in hand. He never takes enough to ruin the look of the garden, and always manages to make it look so pretty. So Servant isn’t against it.

“You were suppose to die,” Kamukura tells him, with certainty, “Everything about your condition was indicative of that.”

He thinks back to how closely Kamukura had held him that night. How hard it had been to breath, how weak he had felt. He remembers, vaguely, feeling hands in his hair and breath on his skin.

“You were preparing for me to die,” Servant says it like he’s just now realizing it, but something had always told him that he was suppose to die. Call it intuition. 

“I was,” Kamukura nods. And, after thinking carefully about his wording, “I… found that it was against my benefit. If you were to die. But by the time I had decided that, we did not have a way out.”

“Well,” He, respectfully, takes the same amount of time to think about what he wants to _say_ , “It’s all thanks to Kamukura-kun that I’m still here, right?”

“In most cases, yes. But even I cannot work with what I do not have,” Kamukura’s hands wrap around one of the sunflower stems. He snaps it, smoothly, and places it in the basket to add to the slowly growing bouquet of flowers he’s collecting, “You simply are just lucky, sometimes. That is how the world works.”

Servant’s brows furrow. He’s stuck the trowel in the ground for support, leaning against it somewhat as he gazes at Kamukura. Continues to gaze at him, “Perhaps,” He argues, “Fate just wanted me by your side.”

“...” Kamukura’s own gaze flickers down to his hand, “You should wear a glove,” He notes, bemused. Servant, in just the slightest bought of rebellion, reaches down to grab a handle full of weeds bare handed.

It stings his hand.

==

Kamukura makes him tea. (Green tea, home grown.)

They sit next to one another, quiet and rigid, and Servant still hasn’t begun to smile yet. His headache has only gotten worse, and the room spins around him, and he sort of wants nothing more than to lay back down and not wake up. 

But he’s not crying. Which is a start. A brilliant, wonderful start.

“Komaeda,” Kamukura starts. Pauses, like he actually has to consider what he’s about to say about this. Something flickers in his gaze, but Servant doesn’t look at him long enough to figure out what, “... You are okay?”

He stares down at the tea. He tries to force the smile back onto his face, but it feels like trying to piece broken china shards back together. 

“I’m okay,” He assures him, mumbles, “A bad dream. That’s all.”

Kamukura tilts his head at him. Servant shifts the cup up to take a long, stilted sip out of it. Tea is always better when it’s hot enough to scold his lips on the way down. 

“It is an overreaction. For a nightmare,” Kamukura says, like an echo, “For you.”

Servant’s fingers trace along the edge of the cup. Gold rimmed, he notes. There’s a crack down the side, not deep enough to prevent its intended use, but deep enough to damage the paint, “Yes,” He agrees, and his voice feels hoarse, “It would seem like that.”

They’re quiet. The world is not. It’s always been like that. An open window allows a breeze to enter the room, Cicada’s buzz just out of reach.

“...” Kamukura reaches over to rest his fingers against the stump of his useless, dead arm. Though the touch is hesitant, almost nonexistent, it is there. 

It doesn’t feel so awkward, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kintsugi; "Kintsugi is a Japanese art form in which breaks and repairs are treated as part of the object's history. Broken ceramics are carefully mended by artisans with a lacquer resin mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum. The repairs are visible — yet somehow beautiful. Kintsugi means "golden joinery" in Japanese."


	6. ivory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servant learns how to play the Piano. Summer ends.

“This will be the last hot day of summer,” Kamukura tells him with certainty, as he pushes his hair back into a ponytail. 

Servant is laying next to the nearest fan, his own hair sloppy pulled up. (He’s been meaning to get Kamukura to cut it for him. Perhaps he'll bring it up later.) There’s a book in his hands, thumb carefully bookmarking his place amongst the pages, “I’m not doing anything, today,” He says, proudly, “Kamukura-kun shouldn’t either.”

Kamukura hesitates.

“Take the day off with me,” Servant asks, coaxes.

He's stared at, for a moment. Just in his boxers and a torn up t-shirt, looking up at Kamukura with what he hopes is a hopeful look to his eye. And it must be, because Kamukura sighs. Complies. Q uietly, comes over to join him next to the fan. Cross legged, and tired looking.

The breeze that comes in through the open widow is stiff, but cool and welcomed. He shifts himself to lay closer to Kamukura, so that his head can lay against his lap

He’s warm.

//

They have a piano, of all things.

Had come with the house. Damaged  _ supposedly _ beyond repair, but too heavy to move and too much work to dismantle. The foundation had left it where it was, apologized for the inconvenience. 

Kamukura has it fixed before the season ends.

Kamukura finds no enjoyment in playing it, despite this. He can, of course. Hope’s Peak had multiple musicians. A Pianist, a Composer, a Singer, even a Producer! But he fixes it only because he dislikes having something so broken in their home. 

However, sometimes. Servant can get him to play. Not for long. Not much. But when he does, it’s always so lovely to hear, and always, so distinctly Kamukura.

//

They sleep together.

They have been sleeping together for years, now. So the idea that this is what would change it is, well. Laughable.

Despite this, he cannot wrap his head around why Kamukura would  _ want _ to. Before it had been a game. Kamukura was his  _ Master _ , and he was the  _ Servant _ . It was a reward and a punishment. Something Kamukura humored him on, used to test him. 

But now they just  _ do _ . There’s no point to their intimacy. It’s not something he’s earned, and yet Kamukura keeps giving it to him. It’s so easy to obtain. Too easy to obtain.

//

Sometimes, when he’s cleaning, Servant will let his finds drift up to rest on the keys. He’ll do his best to mimic the way Kamukura’s hand had rested on it, press down on a few with curious interest. Let his fingers linger on ivory and brush against black notes. He works out a simple tune or two, humors himself with the sound.

Then goes back to cleaning. Like he’s never touched it to begin with.

//

All he’d had to do was place himself in Kamukura’s lap. Carefully place his book off to the side, dog eared so he doesn’t loose his place. Kamukura had followed through, automatically, balanced him without question.

He can justify it to himself, sometimes. He still serves him, afterall. He serves him unasked, like a well trained dog that no longer needs treats to perform it’s trick. If asked, he’d say he’s quite proud of that.

He’d suppose, in that regard, he’s earned something. 

Kamukura’s hands aren’t rough anymore, is the other thing.

He doesn’t mean literally, exactly. His hands have always been smooth to the touch. Sometimes he would allows Servant to run his hand across his palms, tracing the simple lines and following the shape of his fingers.

But when they’re together. When they’re kissing, he’s not.. Rough. He’s not sweet, because Kamukura isn’t someone he’d ever classify as sweet. But there’s no other intent to it. It’s touching for the sake of necessity, together for the sake of familiarity. He has nothing to prove to the man, and nothing to show for it beyond a few stray bites.

He  _ hates _ it.

  
  


//

“You want to learn how to play,” Kamukura says, pointedly to him.

They’re sitting together on the bench, Servant sitting politely with his legs crossed and hands in his lap (As he always does when Kamukura plays, as to not get in his way. Not wanting to be a nuisance.) 

“Ah. Well,” Is all he can say. He cannot- and will not, lie about that. The thought has crossed his mind more than once. But he’s not going to make Kamukura waste his time on someone as talentless and incompitent as himself. 

“You are allowed to ask,” Kamukura doesn’t look at him when he points it out.

“I- I can’t. I only have one hand,” Is Servants pitiful rebuttal. There was a time in his life he could have come up with something far better than that. Could have debated his way out of anything, against anyone.

But this is Kamukura. So his voice falters on him.

“... We can work around that.”

So, he’s learning piano, then.

//

There are scars against his legs, branded into his skin as proof of his crimes in Towa. Kamukura, sometimes, pays attention to these. He’s not sure if it’s a point of jealousy, or just a point of interest. He imagines it’s the latter. It’s hard to imagine Kamukura being jealous, but some selfish part of him like the idea that Kamukura might be angry at wounds he did not cause. Marred so permanently into his Servants skin, when he’d refused to do so much as carve his name.

Servant is pulled up, pressed against the wall. Hands tangle into his hair, propped up by the hip. Kamukura has never had any trouble holding him. Has never had any trouble balancing him. But he helps, wraps his legs around the mans waist.

“Please,” He practically begs him, “Go harder”

He presses the mans hands around his neck, and Kamukura squeezes.

//

The few music books they have, Kamukura has taken to scribbling in. Chicken scratch over notes, some notes crossed out, others circled, words in a language he does not know, and does not understand. It makes the music near illegible, as he barely knows how to read notes himself. But Kamukura’s eyes glide across the page with ease, and when he asks about it all he gets was;

“I was fixing it.”

So, he learns with only Kamukura to guide him. It’s not like they have much else to do with their time.

//

Kamukura is the one to tuck himself into his side, that night. Had shifted them with ease, without question.

It’s rare for them to open the window to their bedroom. But the night air is crisp, and their room is stuffy, and the sounds of the night air are nothing short of mystifying. So he’d justified it to himself. Nothing had happened since they’d gotten here. No one would find them. Not at twelve in the morning.

So he’d cracked it open. Just barely. Just enough that the sounds of rustling tree’s leak into the room, the nearby creek and croaking of frogs. It reminds him that the world is alive. That despair is dying.

Kamukura had complied, of course. Bruises on his hips, bite marks on his shoulders and neck, scratches down his back. But Kamukura hard spent time gazing over them, almost admiring. Like he’d forgotten what he’d looked like branded with his hands and teeth, as though thats possible. Like there’s something beautiful about the deep black on the ghostly ivory of his skin.

  
  


//

“Do you think you’d still follow me,” Kamukura asks him one day, as he stares down at the keys, “In a different lifetime.”

Servant reaches out to press down on one of the keys, following a pattern he’s struggling to remember proper.

“I would have,” He says, honest and certain, “I follow you  _ now _ , afterall. I do not see why that would change elsewhere,”

Kamukura’s fingers touch the ends of the keys. Give him the barest of guidance.

“I don’t think you would have followed me, if you’d known me,” Kamukura tells him, with certainty, as he reaches over to fit his hand over Servants, “Follow my fingers.”

Servant gives him a curious look, but says nothing. 

Past tense, he notes.  _ Past tense _ , he wonders. 

//

When he thinks like this, he feels more like a lover then a servant. 

He looks over at the window, and sees the twinkle of fireflies off in the treeline.

A dangerous mindset to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ◘ Music therapy is good for dementia patients.   
> ◘ I imagine rough sex therapy is less so but what can you do.


	7. ringu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant despairs. kamukura cooks.

Servant is good at  _ most _ chores.

He dare say it’s the one of the few things he’s good for. He can get blood out of white clothing, knows how to shine floors until his reflection shows back. He can do laundry by hand, can dispose of corpses and carnage, has taken care of children and the sick alike.

The one thing he cannot do, however, is cook.

He is an absolute disaster in the kitchen. When left alone, he didn’t eat much because it simply was not worth the effort. Anything he’d create would come out in various shades of black, tasting of char and smoke. 

Luckily for him, Kamukura can cook. Is willing to cook for them, without question.

//

He still despairs.

To say it is lesser would be incorrect. Despair is a funny thing like that. It clings to him, drains him. He’ll tremble and shake, laugh and sob, search for a hand that is no longer there and laugh harder because it’s  _ gone _ . Despair rips agency from his hands. He has no control over when or why he despairs. 

(Then again. It’s not like he’s ever had agency to begin with. So perhaps it’s something he should be use to.)

//

Sometimes he situates himself next to Kamukura and watches him cook.

He can’t lace their fingers together, can’t attach himself to the man. Refuses to get in his way while he works. But he drags one of their kitchen chairs over to the counter and stares at whatever he is cooking that night, arms folded on the counter and legs drawn up to his chest. Sometimes, it’s only vegetables stirred with rice, home grown or not. Other times, it’s meat they’ve trapped. Sometimes, more often, fish. Easier to find, to obtain.

But no matter what it is, he has no right to complain. It’s always far better than how he’d been eating with Ultimate Despair. It had been what he’d deserved, of course. No right to complain whatsoever.

He might like this better.

//

Kamukura has never found any joy in despair, is the thing. Curiosity towards it, sure. But he grew bored of it years ago. Finds no humor, no joy in Servants antics.

It’s something Servant can’t let go of, clings onto with fervent need. With the desperation of a drowning man. He hates it still. Hates her still, hates how infused it’s, she’s become with his personhood. But he still allows it to take him, still falls into cycles.

He wonders if this should have been the tipping point. If this is what the years worth of despair was crawling toward. 

He wonders if this is what hope is.

//

There’s an old box television sitting on the corner of their table.

Small enough not to be intrusive, but there. Not unlike the radio, it seems somewhat pointless at first. Once the Killing Games had ending at Hopes Peak, Ultimate Despair began doing what it did best. Documentation of their destruction was flashed on the screen daily, violence and bloodshed flickering about around their propaganda and newcasts.

Servant does like to watch it, sometimes. He wants to know what his classmates are doing. How they have been. It is undeniable that Kamukura had burdened much of the weight of leadership after Enoshima passed, and with his departure they would be left far more scattered. Kamukura gets occasional updates through Future Foundation. But it’s different, seeing their actions on screen. 

Just different.

(Eventually, Kamukura will reach over to turn the tv off for him. Wordless, and pointed. Never allows him to get too absorbed in their broadcasts.

Probably for the best, he thinks.)

//

Sometimes Kamukura simply sits and watches him with through the rapid mumblings. Not really intervening, but observing. He’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, will simply work around the spell Servant has thrown himself into. And when Servant snaps out of it, exhausted and worn, he’ll approach with apprehension. Will crumble into a pile next to Kamukura. Indulge in his warmth.

Othertimes, rarer in, he wakes up situated in bed. The sheets could be tangled around him, or folded off to the side. The lamp light could be on, could be off. But the door is always locked, and he is always alone.

These times are odd. It’s like waking up after he’s fallen into ice water, like waking up from a bad dream. He dislikes being alone after these spells. But he’ll glance down, and notice the scratches he’s left seared into Kamukura’s skin. He’ll try and think back to the vile, disgusting speech that oozes from his lips in those states. 

He can’t remember. Not entirely, not really. But he can assume, and if he assumes hard enough he understands why he’s alone.

//

Unlike the radio, however, they could find other uses for it.

There’s an old cassette player plugged in on top of it, a CD player built into the base. Though they don’t have many, they have a few movies they can flip through. They don’t do it often. Servant has always been far more interested in reading, then movies, and Kamukura’s general disinterest in anything will forever haunt him. However, sometimes they’ll throw one on. Because some nights, sound is nice. Some nights, it's nice to be reminded of bygone times. Florid romcoms, old horrors, sitcoms they do not have the entire set to.

“Do you have an Ultimate Film Maker?” He asks one night,  _ The Ring _ playing in the background. He’s yet to serve himself a plate of food, because he always wants Kamukura to take what he’d like first. It doesn’t matter has much these days. There’s always enough left for him (They have leftovers, more often then not!) and he can’t remember the last time Kamukura allowed him to go hungry. 

But the force of habit is hard to kick, and he gets nervous jitters when he eats  _ with _ Kamukura. Afterall. He might always want  _ more _ . He might decide Servant should not eat. Servant does not want to disobey or disappoint. 

So he waits. Stretches his arms across the table, rests his head in them

Kamukura doesn’t contemplate the question that hard, “It would seem so,” He says, eats a few bites of Oden, “Producer. Screenwriter. Director.”

“Do you think you would have used it?” He asks, “If it weren’t for the tragedy?”

The light above them flickers, just momentarily.

“I am unsure,” Kamukura puts his bowl down. Takes a breath in, “I believe I hold many talents that I would have never realistically gotten use out of. Perhaps, too many.”

“...” If Servant squints, he thinks Kamukura might just sound annoyed.

“However. If it had been needed, I would have had it. And I suppose that is what’s important.”

Kamukura reaches over to serve another bowl from the hot pot. He fills it far more than Servant would have, right up to the brim. He’s not sure why Kamukura does this. Try as he might, Servant is never able to finish these servings.

Servant raises his finger to point at the ghost pulling itself out of the screen. He smiles. 

“Hey,” He says, blankly, “It’s you,” 

Kamukura shifts the bowl closer to him, “Eat more.” He replies, calmly.

//

Once. Only once, just recently, he woke up in Kamukura’s lap. Kamukura’s grip had been situated around his waist. It was not one of love. It was one of control, and of stability. He remembers tasting iron on his teeth, pulling at his hair, scratching at his skin.

He has to wonder what he did to him. What he said to him.

Kamukura never clings to him. Not normally. Kamukura’s forehead rested on his shoulder, unmoving, and despite Servants soft assurances of “ _ You don’t have to hold on so tight, you know. _ ” He does not let go.

When he gets a glance at Kamukura’s gaze, it’s deadeyed. Dazed.

Neither of them talk about it.

//

Kamukura isn’t good at cleaning, is the other thing.

He can clean. He has the talent of an Ultimate Maid, Ultimate House Keeper, Ultimate Attendant. 

It’s not that he can’t clean. It’s that he.. Doesn’t. 

But Servant does not mind cleaning for him. He prefers it. It gives him a purpose. Otherwise he will lazy himself, will find him doing little else then sleep and sleep and sleep. He does not have the stamina for a job. Does not have any particular skillset that would be useful to Future Foundation, even if he did. He does not even think he could handle a daily trip into and out of town, if he wanted.

So he sits and cleans. Makes the bed every morning, puts away clutter every night. Makes daily routes to pick up trash and dirty clothing, dirty dishes and old sheets of paper. He schedules out when he cleans the floors and sweeps the deck, washes clothing twice a week. Sometimes, he takes on bigger tasks. Cleans the cupboards, reorganizes their closets and dressers. Sometimes, he’ll politely enlist Kamukura’s help in redecorating rooms. 

The man, bemused as he may be, will always humor him.

Never the bedroom though. The bed always sits in the corner, the curtains always drawn tight. 

By the time he’s done cleaning, he’s almost always fatigued. That’s all he can really manage. He’s getting stronger with time, supposedly, but he always end up curling back up in bed after he cleans. Collapses on it.

“You do have a healthier flush to your face,” Kamukura tells him, after looking him over. Because they don’t trust doctors. They don’t trust any professionals. It’s just them, the two of them, and will always be them. Kamukura can manage any position they need. Does so with pride, so long as he has the supplies.

Kamukura mumbles out a, “Good,” And Servant can almost mistake it for pride.

\\\

He expresses this to Kamukura one night while they’re laying in bed. It’s one of the rarer nights, where he doesn’t feel the need to cling to him like he feels as though he’s going to disappear into the night. So he simply lays next to him. Hand pressed against the stump of his arm. 

There’s a distant roll of thunder. Rain has already begun to attack the glass

“Wouldn’t it be nice?” He asks, sincere, “To finally be freed from the constraints of despair? Do you think the world would be more hopeful, with us gone?” He practically sighs thinking about it.

“...” Kamukura’s eyes are still closed, “I am neither hope nor despair. I am a background piece, being freed from nothing, and going to no one,”

And Servant knows. He knows there was a time when Kamukura had preferred to not interact with the world. Still didn’t. It’s an ingrained habit. He does not want to get involved with affairs that are not their own, does not want to be bothered with people that much lower then himself.

The issue with that, of course, is inaction is just as much an interaction as action. Kamukura is smart enough to know this. They both may know he’s above humanity, but even gods can have action on the world.

He wonders how much of this despair Kamukura could have stopped, if he’d truly wanted. Knows how much of his own suffering was preventable. 

“Maybe,” Servant almost laughs. He doesn’t find a lot of humor in it, so he’s not sure why he does, “Perhaps freeing you from the confines of humanity will be for the best, Kamukura-kun!” 

Kamukura does not reply, after that.

It’s only after Kamukura closes his eyes does Servant wrap his arms around him and wish that they could be something more. He’s earned this, he thinks. Has earned his love.

\\\

They have a first aid kit tucked away in the top cupboard, just hidden out of sight. He gets a lot of millage out of it. Afterall, Servant has always been horridly clumsy. Always unlucky, with his falls. 

He has bandaids wrapped around his fingers, from little cuts he’s gained. Pricked his finger on a thorn in the garden, a burn against his palm from grabbing a hot plate wrong. He’s broken a glass today. Had attempted to pick up the pieces, only to leave his hand covered in tiny cuts.

Kamukura is hardly impressed.

“You should have used a dust pan,” He’d told him, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Should not have picked up broken glass”

“It’s not like I mind!” He assures him, “It was faster this way. Would have been more of a hassle to try and get all the glass in the pan,” He waves around the stump, just to make his point.

Kamukura does not argue with him. He keeps his focus on carefully bandage up his wounds. 

Kamukura normally prefers to work in silence. And normally, Servant behaves. But the anxiety of breaking a dish fuels the jitters of a question he normally knows better then to ask, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Does it bother you,” He asks, because he needs to, “Using your talents on me?”

“... I do not see why I would,” Kamukura’s tone is edging on careful, “It was what I was created to do.”

Kamukura has heard his spiel before. How he’s worthless, how he most certainly does not deserve the attention he’s receiving. Servant has long since stopped arguing against Kamukura using his talents on him. After all- everything he did was dripped in talent. He was Kamukura Izuru. He was talent itself. He was.. Hope.

He was hope.

Kamukura takes in a breath, “In a way… Hm. I do not believe I would have been allowed to use them so indulgently, were it any other way. The gift of that agency is not one I take for granted.”

Servant is about to ask what he means by that, But Kamukura moves on without him.

“Let this heal. I will finish dishes,” Kamukura tells him, in the tone of an order.

Servant gazes down at his hand, wrapped up to the wrist in bandaging. He flexes it, testingly. Kamukura has wrapped it perfectly, just as he always does. Taken the pain away, just like he always does.

Indulgence, he thinks. Even he understands that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.  
> I got fanart for this fic.  
> Please look at this sexy little image right here because I love it. The colors? The Tone? It's a wonderful little piece [chefs kisses]  
> https://t3ntacat.tumblr.com/post/619934999763927040/can-i-request-kamukoma-snuggles-0 
> 
> Please take a look at it and maybe consider reblogging it if you have a tumblr.


	8. momiji-gari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant takes a trip into town.

Servant use to not like Autumn, you see.

It was the season where the cold slowly began to creep in and overtake the warmth, where two layers of clothing started to become three, and then four. Where the world slowly died away around them. Because there hadn’t been enough death in their life.

Of course, that death is a necessary evil. Without it, he wouldn’t know the joy of a flourishing spring, or an especially warm summer. 

It was sort of like despair, in that regard. 

And there is some kind of beauty in despair. 

==

Sometimes, Kamukura likes to wander.

He’s always been like this. During The Tragedy, they spent periods of time just wandering. Two days walking, three days stopped. Surveying the effects of despair on the world, observing the damage they’d caused and allowed.

There’d been no specific destination in mind back then. He imagines there’s even less of one now, but Kamukura has never exactly told him where he wanders off to. He thinks he might just walk. Travel the same paths, until boredom takes him, or he must wander back to eat or sleep or take care of himself.

Then he’ll coop himself back up in the comfort of their room for days on end, and everything will be back to normal. Kamukura is safe. 

==

The thing is, the trees around their home are dying in warm shades of orange and yellow, and though the air is crisp it’s almost comfortable, in a way.

This is in large part due to Kamukura. Kamukura, of course, knows how to set up their Kotatsu to be especially comfortable. Sort of, digs out the thickest quilts they own, folds the ones they don’t immediately use so they’re within reach. Servant likes to lay under it, heat as high as it can go, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes reading, sometimes flipping through channel after channel on the radio, sometimes

(Servant knows, with certainty, that there’s a blade tucked under the bottom most blanket. Has noticed that, though the Kotatsu is in the middle of the room, they always end up sitting on the side closest to the wall. He’s never able to fall asleep entirely out here, not unless Kamukura is in the mood to allow him to rest his head and not move for the entirety of the time he’s out.)

(Sometimes he allows it though.)

==

Servant doesn’t like being in the home alone, is the thing.

When he’s alone, something is wrong. When he’s alone, something will go wrong.

He busies himself during the time’s he’s gone. Makes sure to always keep on a movie, cleans hard enough that the bleach breaks his skin and the floors shine like gems. He cleans until he can exhaust himself to the point of sleep, and when he sleeps he without fail wakes up more exhausted then he’d started.

(The words Separation Anxiety ring in his head. He ignores it.)

((He’s good at doing that.))

But when he wakes up, Kamukura is more often than not back. 

Servants approach of Kamukura is never panicked. It’s never worried, and never scared. He knows Kamukura knows how to keep safe. Knows that realistically, worry is nothing more than blatant overreactions to needless anxiety.

But it’s there. And it’s calmed, the moment he can curl up next to him.

"I missed you," he tells him.

Kamukura pauses. Shifts to adjust for him, and continues to work.

Kamukura is never gone for more than a day. Servant is truly pathetic, sometimes. 

==

“I wish we could go to a hotspring,” Servant mumbles, on a night that’s particularly chilly, “I haven’t been to one in a very long time,”

“....” Kamukura would tilt his head. He’s carefully does not have his legs under the Kotatsu, but is sitting close enough that Servant can brush his fingers through the mid of his hair like he enjoys doing. He’s moved what work he needs to do out onto the table.

“I have never been to one,” Kamukura points out, “I think.”

And normally, that answer would suffice. Normally, it would be enough. But..

_ He thinks... _

==

He’s just, been doing it more recently. Is the thing.

"... It is not good to stay inside all the time," Kamukura tells him, when he asks, “That’s all.”

Servant knows when he’s being unreasonable. He doesn’t press.

Sometimes, he can push himself to walk into town. Because being around other people isn’t.. The same, but it’s not alone. And sometimes he needs the reminder. That the world is alive and well. It’s filled with hope, and laugher, and joy, and that the town is not in ruins.

The walk into town isn’t long, but it is tiring. It's an odd feeling, because they use to walk everywhere. Use to spend so much of their time  _ walking _ . But now, an hours walk out wears him down enough that he needs to stop to rest thrice over on the way there, and more times then he can count on the way back.

But again. It is better than being home alone.

Anything is better than being alone.

==

Servant is wearing two layers of sweaters when Kamukura finds Servant lovingly working through the dying leaves, trimming overgrown bushes and sorting through old plants. He brings out two cups, gently sets one down on the rock nearest to Servant. When Servant brings it up to his lips, he’s quick to discover it’s hot chocolate.

“Thank you,” He tells him, takes another sip. 

(When he kisses him, he notices Kamukura’s lips taste distinctly like black coffee. 

Thats odd, he thinks. Normally Kamukura takes his coffee sweet.)

He takes the time to admire the colors of the surrounding tree’s, and the falling of leaves as he drinks. “I found one almost as red as your eyes are, Kamukura-kun,” He tells him, patting about his pockets here and there to try and figure out which he put it in. His eyebrows furrow, lips twitch down, “Oh. I think I lost it though..”

Servant wastes time collecting a few of the more colorful leaves so that he can balance them carefully in Kamukura’s hair. 

"There" he says "Now you look  _ very _ pretty," Servant is, in fact, very proud of this feat. 

And only after he’s thoroughly decorated Kamukura’s hair and finished off the rest of his drink does he go back to work. Tends to his pumpkin vine, gently replants wild flowers elsewhere. Kamukura takes the time to cut through the remaining sunflowers with a blade, right against the base. He grips them by the stems, and rips through them with force he’s only ever seen him use on monokuma bots. 

“It is better to kill them off now, and get use out of them,” Kamukura tells him, brushing the petals with a delicate finger, “Then to let them die and rot.”

Servants, carefully, does not say anything at the tone he takes.

==

People don’t ask about his arm. 

Everyone has had something happen to them in despair. They didn't need to be the root of it, running it, to be scarred by it. He just lets them assume what they’d like, whisper about it when they think he’s not looking.

It’s no different than being with Ultimate Despair. 

(Except that it is)

==

He has a tendency to rip his clothing. 

Whether it be out in the garden, following the foot worn paths around their home, or simply from wearing them down. It’s not like he hasn’t worn torn clothing before. Both in despair and in his highschool years, he was always far more partial to  _ unique _ sort of styles. It’s just- there's a fine line between fashionably cut and simply worn in clothing.

He needs Kamukura to fix them, is the thing. 

"I use to know how to sew, you know," he tells Kamukura, as he hands him off his jeans to repair them, "No good now, of course. Which is a shame. I enjoyed it a lot."

Kamukura tilts his head, eyeing the spot her arm use to be with a raise of an eyebrow

"If I recall," he says, and it's calm, "You sewed her arm on yourself."

"It's easier to sew flesh on one handed," he replies, just as calm. Gives something of a dreamy sigh, "But so many fabrics are hard to do on their own. I did hate sewing through Nevermind-sans silk dresses- though, it was a little easier back then. I had her help," 

He waves the stump again. Pointed. Kamukuras gaze flickers down to the jeans instead. He  _ almost _ misses how much harder Kamukura shoves the needle through the fabric.

===

  
  


There's also a cafe in town. 

Everything is just a little overpriced, and nothing they make could ever match Kamukura's cooking, and he's never been much of a coffee drinker. 

But they have excellent Castella, and the atmosphere is just quiet enough not to overwhelm him, and when he arrives early enough he can sit and glance over the various news paper clippings and adverts they have hung up on the corkboard across his favorite spot. 

Normally they’re quite pessimistic in nature.

_ “Another mass slaughter in Tokyo leaves city more unstable then ever…” _

_ “Mass Suicide in Sapporo…” _

_ “Mass poisoning at food drive. Culprit at large.” _

These are  _ normal _ , these days. The sort of articles people would sit and read over coffee and breakfast. 

But recently, he’s noticed a shift. Recently. Well.

_ “Bombing in Kyoto stopped, Future Foundation member Naegi Makoto offers statement.” _

_ “Novoselic reign begins to falter in Europe as Future Foundation pushes inward.” _

_ “Ultimate Despair beginning to fall silent” _

…. Hm.

He can’t help but wonder if they did the right thing by leaving. Can’t help but wonder how the others are doing.

Quietly, he eats his Castella.

  
  


===

Once he woke up and Kamukura was tangled up with him under the Kotatsu. He wasn’t asleep, per say. Had his arms around his waist, tight enough to hurt. Face pressed against his shoulder. He was still as a rock, and Servant had spent a while sitting there and watching the silhouette of Kamukura’s shoulders rise and fall. Finding comfort, in his touch. 

==

There’s also a library in town.

He stops by it anytime he comes in. Gives him a reason to come out, really, beyond the biweekly need for supplies. Normally, he stops there last. So he’s not carrying around three, four books all day. Gives him time to sit in an old arm chair, closest to the window, and flip through old books and magazines no longer in publication. 

(But Kamukura isn’t there. And since Kamukura isn’t there it feels wrong. Kamukura is willing to put up with him rambling about whatever have you, the various books he’s reading, the articles he finds. Lets Servant reach over to point out passages in prose and deals with him quoting sonnets from shakespeare.

He’s only just recently started doing that, again. Though the words are awkward on his lips, and the words hazy in his mind, the passages slip out as easily as they had when he was 16. As though a day hadn’t passed. As though english hadn’t long since rotted out of his mind.)

(( He use to have a book with a collection of Shakespeare, with highlights and underlined and notes in the corner. The spine was so worn that it was falling apart, and the pages so abused they were dirtied grey. He didn't have anyone to share his thoughts with, back then. Not even a dog. It was just him, among stacks of books in a private, forgotten library. 

He doesn’t have that book anymore. Lost it a long time ago. He wonders if Kamukura would have liked to see that. If he could have shared that with him. ))

Of all the things he enjoys about coming in, hearing the librarians gossip is high on the list. 

There’s a librarian that talks especially loud. She seems to be sixty, maybe seventy years old. Hair long since greyed, but eyes still vibrant and lively. A little bit of a hunched back to her, he notes.

“Those Future Foundation, they’re getting too big for their heads,” She snaps, to a much younger and flustered looking librarian that has been politely sorting through the same pile for the last five minutes, “Coming in here demanding to  _ steal  _ our stock,” She snaps this out with a bitter tone. Servant is carefully not looking at her, carefully standing only an aisle over and running his hands delicately over worn spines and dusty book jackets.

Romance, he notes. Not what he normally goes for. He’s always preferred nonfiction and mysteries. Perhaps it would be a nice change of pace.

"You know what they told me? Preserving the  _ culture _ .  _ Culture _ ," she scoffs, sharp, "As if there's any culture to be found when there's nothing there to engage with, stashing away our stories in those  _ private _ vaults of theirs. So you know what I told them? I told them they can have  _ scans _ . They weren’t too happy about that. Started on a  _ do you know who we are  _ sort of spiel _. _ "

He allows his luck to pick for him, is the thing.

Isn’t paying attention to where his hands are at, not really. Drifts from one end of the isle to the next, waiting for fate to call to him. It’s a finicky thing like that. Comes to a halt when it feels right. 

When he stops, it’s on _ So Lingers the Ocean  _ by  _ Fukawa Touko _ .

He blinks. Smiles.

"And you know what I said? If Naegi Makoto himself- no,  _ Ultimate Despair  _ came wandering up to my doorway and demanded I close my doors, I would fight them all the same! I've been at this for 35 years, did it through the end of the world, and I’m counting on at least 30 more” She takes a deep breath in, like it’s suppose to be calming, “... They’re coming around here more and more. Should have better things to do with their time then dawdle around our corner, if you ask me."

(Interesting luck, he thinks, as he pulls the book off the shelf. Very interesting luck indeed.)

She sounds so pained. He decides to put her out of her misery, and sets down the two books he’s gathered with a shell of a smile.

"Oh- sorry dear. Got a bit loud there, did I?" She smiles at him, like he hadn't just been hearing her rant, "What do we have today?"

==

Another time, he wakes up with Kamukura standing over him. 

He’s not sure what time it had been, exactly. Late enough that it was dark, that he can’t see anything besides his silhouette. He’d just been standing there. Staring down at him, and though he cannot see it, he somehow knows it’s with that long vacant stare of his. 

"What are you doing?" He asks him, groggy and bemused. 

"..." Kamukura doesn't answer him immediately. Sways somewhat, which is odd, because Kamukura is normally still enough to be mistaken for a corpse, “I am.. Unsure. Sorry,” He tells him, and it feels awkward. Like it’s not something Kamukura should be giving him, of all people, “I did not mean to wake you.”

Servant’s brows furrow, “Lay back down?” He coaxes. It’s supposed to be gentle, but he cannot keep the exhaustion from teetering on his tone.

It takes Kamukura a moment. Then another. And then slowly, he nods to agree.

He’s not sure why the interaction sticks out to him. It was nothing terribly odd, all things considered. 

But he still thinks about it. 

==

There’s a cat that blinks up at him in the alleyway just next to his preferred market.

Black and tattered. A torn ear and green eyes.

It wanders up to him and runs between his legs, flops onto its side and stares up at him. He almost ignores it, lost enough in his own little world.

“Did you even know the world changed?” He asks the cat, as he shifts the weight of his groceries and books onto the ground instead so he can scratch delicately behind its ear, “Do you know how different it is now?”

Logically, he thinks not. 

“I can’t take you home,” He tells it, with certainty, “I can’t. Knowing my luck, you’ll crawl under the Kotatsu and the fumes will kill you. Or- Or you’ll wander out into the forest and get eaten.  _ Or _ , or, I’ll accidentally step on you! I’ve done that to Kamukura-kun before, you know,”

He’s petting the cat while he explains this. The cat blinks up at him, none the wiser, and purrs.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

(He does not, in fact, take the cat home. But looking back on it later, he thinks maybe he should have.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> momiji-gari; Momijigari (紅葉狩り) is the Japanese tradition of visiting areas where leaves have turned red in the autumn.


	9. towa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant, once again, is forced to reconsider.

Given their honestly horrid sleep schedules, Servant is not surprised when he wakes up at some of the odder hours.

Sometimes, he wakes up to the brilliant yellow and orange hues of a sunset slipping in through the cracks of the room. He’ll reach over and shift the curtain, marvelling at the look of the dying trees on the scarlet sky. Sometimes he wakes up midday, sticky from night terror and alone. He’ll curl up tighter into his blankets, press his face into a pillow, and attempt to drown himself back to unconsciousness.

And sometimes, rarely, Servant wakes up to a pale blue dawn. Rain just barely a mist against hues of green and blue, or white frost decorating the trees and window. Kamukura is tucked just under his arm, and the world is warm, breathless and still. 

He likes those mornings best.

There’s something mystical about it. He’ll always lean over to knock his forehead against Kamukura’s. And, always, without hesitation wrap him up in a far tighter embrace. 

==

So here’s the thing.

He remembers Kamukura coming into Towa town.

He was always there, really. Watching from the shadows, observing, calculating. As he tended to do anywhere else. But Servant’s place had previously been closer with Kamukura. Had stood along the sidelines, only followed the call of despair when it’s sirens song became too strong. His place had always been to serve. Enoshima, Ultimate Despair, now Kamukura. 

Being on the front lines had felt voyeuristic, of all thing.

“Do you like my game so far?” He asks him, as he rubs at marker ink with an alcohol swab, “I did work hard on it, you know.”

“It is going exactly as predicted,” Kamukura tells him, stares through him instead of at him, “I do not see an irregularity occurring.”

“Do you think the plan will work, then?”

Kamukura did not answer him. His gaze finally sharpens, flicks up to Servant’s half cleaned face.

He stares. Only stares.

“I see,” Servant says, just as bright, “A surprise then. How exciting!”

Kamukura looks him over, and Servant feels a shiver go down his back. He wasn’t use to it, by then. Any attention from him, even looks, was enough to send him into shakes, “You’re bleeding,” Kamukra tells him, like he’s only just now noticed.

“I am!” Is Servants cheerful reply.

Kamukura looks away from him once again.

==

Kamukura brings it up one morning as they’re drinking tea. Servant’s curled up against Kamukura as he reads, legs tangled together, learning that autumn is the best time to grow crops, that there are certain crops he can start in the winter if they can get their hands on them, learns the proper difference between leaf and root vegetables. 

He carefully does not dogear the books, because he does not own these ones, and keeps the cup away from the pages, and occasionally he will point at a passage to show Kamukura to check and make sure that what he’s reading is fact.

Kamukura, on the other hand, seems distracted. 

He always seems distracted, granted. But Servant knows the difference in Kamukura thinking, genuinely thinking, and when Kamukura seemingly only lost in thought because his head is a chaotic mess of complex information and details the likes of such Servant will never truly understand. 

Still. Even he is unprepared for the topic Kamukura is focused on.

"Komaeda,” He starts. Stalls. Waits for Servant to look up from his book,” If theoretically, one day, I wanted a companion. A partner. Instead of a follower," Kamukura stops. Not like he’s distracted, but like he’s waiting for input.

And all Servant can give is, "... Yes?"

"... Would you be okay with that?"

Servants brows furrow, "If Kamukura were to find someone else.." It would hurt. He knows immediately that he couldn’t deal with the overwhelming, bitter jealousy of sharing. He also knows that it’s not his place to feel jealousy. That this must be a test of some kind. So quietly, he finishes, “It would be his choice, and I would gladly serve his companion just as I do Kamukura-kun.”

Kamukura’s eyes dart up to study him almost immediately. It sort of scares Servant, because he doesn’t get an immediate validation on if his answer is right or wrong. Because Kamukura wants something more, and that was Servants honest answer, "That isn't what I meant."

Servants blinks. Kamukura continues to stare at him like he’s waiting for it to click, but it doesn’t. It’s almost frustrating. Like an answer sitting right there for him to take, but burning his hand the moment he reaches out to touch it.

Servant is unable to give him an answer, because Servant does not understand the question.

"Nevermind,” Kamukura decides, and rests his head against Servants shoulder, “It will come to you with time."

  
  
  


==

It’s not that he means to leave right away.

He simply expects to. His role in the city has been completed. Kamukura, supposedly, knows how this will end. If he is here, has approached Servant, then that means it is time to leave. 

Kamukura surprises him, despite this.

“I still have something I must collect,” He tells him, looks over the edge of the building they’re on, “I cannot leave until I find it.”

Servant, on the other hand, is sitting on the edge. 

“Oh?” His interest is piqued, “You should have told me. I would have found it for you.”

“No. This is something I must retrieve on my own.”

That is something Servant can understand, if nothing else. Sometimes, the time is not right. Sometimes, you have to wait. Like waiting for despair to die. 

He looks down at the city, and kicks his legs out. 

“You did not patch your legs up properly,” Kamukura tells him, with certainty.

“Ah. I suppose I did not.”

==

There’s a creek close by. 

Just along the base of the hill. Close enough that he can hear the water while he’s walking through the fields. It sort of, runs off into a pond near the edge of the treeline. Not deep enough to truly swim in, and the water is somewhat murky. The sort where you step into it, it’s more mud and plant then it is sand.

(And really, he’s grateful for. It’s hard to accidentally drown in waters when you can’t even swim in them. He’s sure his luck would find a way, but it seems safer like this. Seems safer, to only be waist deep)

(Kamukura is already making tentative plans just in case the waters flood too close to the house. There’s no assurance on the matter. But just in case.)

He walks along the edges of it sometimes. When he has nothing better to do, and wants to walk while he thinks. Because Kamukura has told him staying inside isn’t good for his health, and despite the hypocrisy he will listen to him. 

(One time, he catches a frog. A pretty thing, bright shades of red and green. He catches it one handed, means to keep it long enough to show Kamukura. But then he gets so nervous that he’ll kill it, will squeeze it too tightly and hurt it, that Kamukura won’t even want to see it. And really, isn't it somewhat _childish_ to be catching frogs? So he lets it go with trembling, terrified hands and wide eyes and watches it leave back into the water.

It’s safer out there, like that. He’s only ever caused death, afterall.)

Servant spends some time raking the leaves off the pathways surrounding their home.

The pathway leading up to their house is stone, the kind where the stones don’t entirely fit together, where time has forced them apart and moss grows freely between them. Truthfully, Servant prefers them like this. Though he’s tripped on some of the uneven bits on more than one occasion, and though it makes tending to it all the more difficult. He’s carefully lined the main path with vegetable plants and marigold, and tend to them carefully. Hopes the poisoned soil won’t kill the roots.

 _Come to him with time_ , he thinks, as he stares down at the bright red leaves.

Come to him with time…

It does not.

==

They agree to meet up in one of the abandoned apartments on the outskirts of the city. Kamukura has been staying there, supposedly. The entire time, _supposedly_.

Monaka had, at some point, fallen asleep on their walk back.

“Did you find what you were after?” Servant asks, respectfully, knows Kamukura will not speak unless spoken to.

Kamukura finally dumps what’s in his hand. The computer pieces are crushed to bits, like pieces of glass that have been hammered in, “I will not be able to fix them. I will try to, but will not be able to,” Is what he says, to Servants curious gaze. He almost sounds frustrated at this fact. Almost. Just enough to catch Servants attention. Just enough to make him uncomfortable. 

“I… see,” Servant speaks slowly, carefully. Moves to shift Monaka down to the couch, “And here I thought you could do anything, Kamukura-sama!” 

“... You have a child,” Kamukura notes, looking at the sleeping Monaka no longer on his back.

“I do.”

“Her plan failed.”

“It did. It is quite disappointing, wouldn’t you say? That the war did not come to fruition,” He feels his breath get heavier, a shake rake his body, “But this is good, isn’t it? I can be the change to the world. I can help set the stepping stones to allow hope to overcome. Is that not an incredible feeling, Kamukura-sama?? Knowing that one day, despair will topple over. That despair will become the substrate for hope to reside on? That it will be trampled and abused by the very hand that flourished it?”

Kamukura does not blink at him. Does not flinch. He likes this about Kamukura. Kamukura, if nothing else, understands him. Doesn’t give him odd looks when he talks about the cycle of hope and despair, not like the others do. Because he gets it. He knows it’s out there, knows that one will win in the end over the other.

Servant knows it will be hope. Kamukura is indifferent. 

“I do not think this war will be fought. Not anymore,” He’s looking down at the broken computer parts as he says it, has waited for Servants breathing to even out, “However, I think you will be surprised by the outcome.” 

“We will see,” Servant, in turn, looks at Monaka, “Maybe we’ll surprise you!”

“... Your legs are still not patched up correctly,” He sounds.. Miffed. 

Servant gives a laugh. Dry, and harsh on his throat, “No. I suppose they are not.”

From the couch, Monaka gives a snore. 

==

He’s cleaning their room, when Kamukura brings the topic up.

“I considered abandoning you, once,” Kamukura tells him out of nowhere, as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s watching the gentle turn of the ceiling fan. Spinning just enough to give air flow throughout the room, but not to truly chill it. 

“Ah?”

“A little after Enoshima died,” Kamukura hesitates on this, of all things, “She left you to me by name. Found amusement in the idea of it, I believe. She seemed to think that you would be more of an annoyance than anything, that eventually you would be crushed by the inevitability of my disinterest.” 

“Well. I wouldn’t have blamed you, you know,” Servants smile is carefully not strained, even if the idea of it turns something sour in his stomach. It’s still a fear of his. That one day, Kamukura will leave and never return. That he will be left alone, truly alone.

He’s always been beneath Kamukura, of course. 

And yet, as though he knows what he’s thinking. As though he knows how to read his mind.

“I _considered_ abandoning you. And yet I did not. I use to wondered why I did not,” Kamukura’s seems to struggle with his own words. He looks like he wants to add more, feel like there’s more he should add. Instead, his gaze finally turns to him in its entirety, “Yet I now cannot envision a life without you. Would you consider that odd, Komaeda?”

Servant sucks in a sharp breath. “Because fate groomed me to _serve_ you,” He reminds him, shifts on his toes, “We have always been meant for one another.”

It doesn’t come out with as much conviction as normal. He surprises even himself, with that. 

==

They stay long enough for Monaka’s fascination with him to grow to resentment (He knows, see’s the way she twitches when he speaks, glares when he begins to ramble. The looks are familiar enough. Distinctly reminds him of Ultimate Despair, at times.) Long enough that the wounds on his legs scab over.

(“Change the bandaging,” Kamukura would order him, periodically, and place a fresh roll at his side. He’s not sure how he’s found it, or where. But he obeys as ordered. Always does.)

Long enough for Kamukura to attempt to, and give up on, fixing Junko’s ai. 

“Would you say you’ve tasted despair, at last?” Servant asks him, as he places a plate of food on the desk in front of him. Because Kamukura had not eaten unless given food, back then. Would always look at the burnt food like he’s insulted him, and always gets up to make enough for the group. 

Tonight, however, he pushes the plate away, “I have not.”

From the corner of the room, Monaka scoffs down at her game.

==

"But why did you keep me," Servant asks him, later, multiple times. This is a topic that they’ve discussed before. One that had once upon a time been dropped, but is now kindled in the light of their newest conversation.

"You were convenient to have around," Kamukura answers once, "Your talent was the most interesting, of them all. " He answers another time. 

But they don’t satisfy him. Not really. Kamukura says them in the sort of way he does when even he knows the answer he’s giving is un

Funnily enough, he doesn’t get his answer from asking. They’re having dinner together, the sort of dinner where neither of them are talking much over it, and Servant has eaten more than Kamukura has, and the air isn’t awkward, exactly, but it’s not entirely friendly.

"I do not know,” He finally says, like an admittance.

"... Huh?"

"I don't know why I kept you,” “The answer probably does not suffice. But it is the honest one.”

And it’s not that he can’t accept that answer. It’s that it takes him so aback that he cannot stop his sharp, knee jerk reaction of, "You know everything, though.”

"I know most things," He rebuttals, voice simmering to something dangerous, “Even I cannot know everything. I should not have brought it up. I am unsure of why I did. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing,” Servant laughs almost automatically, and even if it feels heavy on his lips it breaks some kind of tension.

“I should know. I do not. For that I apologize.”

Servant doesn’t pull himself up immediately. He allows himself to finish what he’d like of his food, spends a good minute or so watching Kamukura’s otherwise still figure. But eventually, he does pull himself up from his spot on the other side of the Kotatsu. Makes his away around to stand next to him.

“May I?” He asks. He normally does not anymore. But it seems right to do, now.

“.. Always.”

And so. Servant sits with Kamukura again. Close enough that their legs tangle together, and that he can wrap his arms around his waist, and carefully pull his blanket about to cover the both of them. He likes to imagine it shielding them both, from the outside world like this.

“Thank you for telling me,” Servant whispers, “But you really should eat more.”

==

He sees Komaru in passing, of course. Both surprised she’s stayed, and at the same time.. Not really. She’s always seemed the honorable sort. Has been running around creation, destroying the left over Monokuma bots, repairing what they can of the city.

It’s just that he never approaches her. Finds solace in sinking back into obscurity, really.

They only talk to eachother once. Just once. Not a particularly long one, just as he’s about to leave with Kamukura. As they’re standing along the ends of the city, mapping out the next path they’d take.

“Kuzuryuu will be needing us soon,” Kamukura tells him, calmly, “We should head in the direction of Tokyo,” And then Kamukura does not look up from the map as he says, “People.”

“What?” Servant looks around, but really, it’s the distinct yell of;

“Hey!! _You_!” 

That catches him off guard. Komaru runs into his line of sight, gasping for breath. Fukawa seems far less eager to get to the two of them, grips her hair and stares at them.

“Oh,” He says, blankly, “Hello.”

“Why are you here?” She doesn’t sound scared, entirely. It’s not like she has a bomb attached to her wrist set to blow if she wanders too far from the city limits. Not like Servant has much power over her at all, really. She still looks at him with an eye of unease, steps a little closer to the ultimate she’s gotten so friendly with

“Ah. Well. It’s not like I really ever _left_.”

She looks him over,“We thought you died,” She says, “Or _something_.”

“ _She_ thought you died,” Fukawa corrects it in a tone that's practically accusatory, raises a finger to him and glares, “I knew you were under our noses this whole time.”

“Oh. No, it seems that I’m still alive, despite everything. Unfortunate, isn’t it?” He says this with complete sincerity, brings his fingers up to tap against his chin.

“We were just leaving. He won’t bother you anymore.”

The two of them jump, at the sound of Kamukura’s voice. He’s behind them. Looking between them with a fleeting moment of interest. He knows Kamukura just well enough to know what he’s doing, by that point. See’s him take in the information he needs. Reads them. By the time the writer has figured out that he can be a threat (He sees her hand snap down to her side, steps closer to Komaru) He has decided they aren’t of any interest to him, and moves back over to stand next to him.

“It is a shame,” He tells Komaru, with a blank smile on his face, as they’re about to turn away, “That nothing came of this. It’s like it makes all the carnage and bloodshed a waste, does it not?” He says it all dreamy like. 

Komaru _grimaces_ , “You’re... kind of messed up, you know that?”

“Perhaps,” He rubs the back of his neck, and smiles instead of sighing, “Perhaps.”

==

It comes to him with time.

He struggles with the idea of it before approaching it. 

“Kamukura-kun,” He interrupts his work for this. Needs to say it before it slips away from him, “If you wanted a partner. Instead of a follower. I would want to be that for you.”

Kamukura turns to gaze at him. For the longest time, Servant is unsure if he said the right thing, or if he should pull back and apologize for overstepping his boundaries.

“Would.. That be okay?” Servant asks, quietly, “You would want that?”

For a moment, nothing is said between them. Servant is breathing like he’s just dragged something heavy, like he’s worn himself out and needs to catch his breath. Kamukura is still as a statue, something eerie-like when he does it. 

Kamukura slowly, easily, gives him a small nod. 

Servant releases the breath he should have been holding, “Oh. Okay,” He says, “Good.”

And

For some reason, his heart hurts.


	10. we sleep like solders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant hosts guests

So.   
Future foundation just can't leave them be. 

This is, perhaps, partially their own fault. If they had just settled, hadn't worked so close to the  _ enemy _ , it wouldn't be an issue. 

But the pay is just a little too good, they send them the medicine they need, and they were given a  _ house _ .

So they deal with it. They play carefully.

And then they cannot.

==

He and Kamukura are laying in bed with one another when the topic comes up. The sort of laying together where they’re laying a respectful distance apart, and they’re not even really talking, and Kamukura expects  _ him _ to bring it up but he can’t get past the knot in his throat.

It's raining. Hard enough that it sounds like waves hitting the window. It hasn’t rained this hard since deep into the summer months, really had expected snow before another storm. The lights in their room are out, and the light that does come in is in saturated hues of blue.

He bets it’s cold out there. 

“The Kamukura Project-” Servant starts. Stalls. Keeps staring at the ceiling, with his hands folded at his stomach. 

He’s talking about something forbidden, is his main concern. He knows a scarce few details. Enoshima use to taunt him with it, knew more about it then  _ she _ should. Snooped through (And burnt) files. Had a boyfriend involved in the project, who she supposedly could always get just the right amount of information out of. 

(She killed him, later. Naturally.)

Kamukura does not look at him. He thinks he might have crossed a line. He expects the disregard to turn to disdain. Is even preparing to have Kamukura try and leave, is fully ready to get on his knees and spew apologies (He shouldn’t overstep his boundaries, he should know his place, really, really) until Kamukura has returned back to his side.

Instead. He see’s Kamukura take in a long breath. And quietly finish his statement for him;

“Was the worst thing I have been through in my lifetime. I would not wish what I went through on Enoshima herself.”

  
  


==

Naegi Makoto and Kirigiri Kyoko are carefully not Kamukura’s bosses, but also _ not-not  _ Kamukura’s bosses. He’s not in their department, technically speaking, but they’re also a higher position then him, and in the area, and drop the notice that they’ll be visiting with enough time to prepare a meal, but not enough time to have the information truly settle.

Servant is  _ far _ more stressed about the ordeal than Kamukura is. 

“The house needs to be cleaned,” Servant tells him, not  _ panicking _ but not exactly calm.

“Our house is always clean.”

“We should cook,” Is how he tries to worry again, 

“I will cook.”

“Kamuku _ ra-kun- _ ”

Kamukura turns heel to face him, “Go lay down,” in the tone of an order, “Please.”

And... he does.

==

  
  


“You’re curious,” Kamukura notes, and he can feel Kamukura’s eyes on him.

“.... I am,” Servant admits. He considers trying to laugh it off. Trying to ease the air in the room. But the tension isn’t unbearable, and he does not think Kamukura would appreciate him doing so.

“You may ask me things,” Kamukura tells him, permits him, “I do not mind.”

Servant stares at the ceiling, harder

“I don’t know how to ask,” He admits, “I don’t know what to ask.”

“So, you are curious. But you have no questions?”

“Quite a contradiction. Wouldn’t you say, Kamukura-kun?”

If he tilts his head just right, Kamukura might look amused.

==

Naegi Makoto is a small man. Messy brown hair, with bright green eyes and a smile wider than the sun. It’s not a fake smile either. Nor is it cruel, nor is it unsteady. It’s the sort of smile that’s rare these days, doesn’t have anything to hide.

Naegi Makoto killed Junko Enoshima. He killed Despair Herself. He was dubbed the  _ Ultimate Hope _ . A true hope, one that didn’t fall to the whims of despair when push came to shove.

Servant should  _ adore _ him. 

And yet.

He killed  _ Enoshima _ . The first person to ever have paid him mind and gave him notice. He killed the first person that was willing to so freely touch him. Her intimacy was cursed, left his skin burning and figure shaking, but it was still  _ attention _ . It was something, in a lifetime of nothing. 

(He remembers not trusting her at first, seeing behind the cracks in her facade. She ran on poison, spoke through lies. But he’s always been so...  _ selfish _ . Has always known how to disregard faults for his own gain.)

She kept him by her side despite his flaws (Which she so freely reminded him of, but that was okay,  _ really _ . It was nothing he wasn’t aware of already). She took interest in his luck, understood the  _ cycle _ of hope and despair. She knew his side, taunted him for it, but played with his game so long as he played hers. 

So his smile comes thin, despite his gaze being starry eyed, and his grip on his sleeve is tight, despite his voice being carefully kind. He stands at a polite distance when they first enter, and carefully does not offer words.  _ Not immediately. _

The other thing is. Well. Neither he nor Kamukura have ever “ _ played well with others _ ,” As Sonia had so delicately put it one time. Kuzuryu had put it less delicately in reply, calling them both “ _ Indifferent assholes _ .”

(He wasn’t supposed to be listening in on the two of them. That had never stopped him before.)

Kamukura reads people like a medical machine reading for signs of life. Servant likes to keep a healthy distance between himself and others, likes to make it clear that he is beneath rather than equal. He’s better at standing in the nearest corner and waiting for an order to server. He’s not by any means an  _ entertainer _ . 

The meeting starts fine, despite this.

Kamukura is good at putting on an act. Has a particular way of holding himself. Of being able to make people think he’s far more  _ harmless _ than he is. He’s good at blending in. There’s a difference, he knows, in the still, expressionless, ethereal Kamukura that he knows. And the awkward, 

He thinks it might be a talent. Has to be a talent, because that’s how Kamukura functions. An Ultimate Actor, Ultimate Impersonator. He’s seen him use it once, before they’d settled down, when they got caught helping set up bombs for Souda. Kamukura had come off as so charming, then. 

(“Nothing more than social engineering,” Kamukura had answered him later, as he watched Souda blow through another set of switches.)

He doesn't smile while answering the door, but it’s the most life to him that he's seen in him since meeting him, “Make yourself at home,” He says, in a tone so distinct he might as well be a different person.

And then he turns around, and meets Servant’s gaze. His expression falls, and for just a second he’s back to normal.

He wonders if he could ever make him so sincerely happy. He wonders if it’s even possible.

==

“Who’s Hinata Hajime,” Is his first question, despite everything else sitting wrong with him. He’s not sure why exactly. He just knows something about it feels off. Knows, “He has to be someone, right? You were using your imposter talent, right??”

Kamukura raises a hand to stop him from going on that tangent, “It was not my imposter talent,” Kamukura corrects him, “I am Hinata Hajime. There is nothing more to it..”

Servant doesn’t bother with the nicity of looking out of the corner of his eye, for this. He turns his head and stares, because he wants  _ more _ than that. Because there has to be more than that.

Kamukura catches on.

“I am Hinata Hajime. Yet I am not,” He must look about as confused as he feels, because Kamukura does not wait long before continuing, “My identity. The one I’ve claimed now. It is one gifted to me by Hope’s Peak at my birth. I was recreated and renamed over the course of the Kamukura project. I was shaped in the schools image, and built to their ideas. At the end of it all, I was no longer Hinata Hajime.”

“Oh. Huh,” Is Servants pleasant underreaction.

“Though I suppose I still am, in a way,” Kamukura tilts his head, as though sincerely thoughtful, “Afterall. It is no one else's identity to claim. No one else's history to maintain. I am, but I am not.”

”...What was he like?”

“I do not know. Hinata Hajme is an enigma to me. I do not have any memories from before the project. I have assumptions. I’m sure they are correct. It’s…” Kamukura tilts his head with his breath. He see’s the way his eyes flutter shut, “Fascinating. An entire period of my life, stolen from me without a trace. Should that not be frustrating? Should that not be infuriating? And yet. It is not,” He breaths out, “I am not.”

Servant isn’t so sure about that. 

“Do you think he’s still here?” Servant pulls himself up. To say excitement, would be wrong. But his eyes are vivid, and his gaze is sharp, and he rushes, “Could he come back?” Could he take Kamukura from him, is what he will not ask. Could he leave him alone again.

Kamukura just looks at him. Because he’s ruined the silence. Drowned out the rain and the frogs and the wind with his panic. 

Despite this, Kamukura does raises a hand. It starts at the front of his skull, and moves slowly, back, along the line of his scar until he can no longer move it behind them. Servant thinks he gets it, despite that.

“He’s… there?”

“Perhaps. I do not believe it is that simple. I think he is beyond me. I think he is far from reach. But I will never truly be rid of him.” Kamukura admits, “But he is there. He is me. I am Hinata Hajime. He will never leave me. A curse on my existence, yet the base for what I am today.”

“But you’re  _ Kamukura-kun _ ,”

“In the same way you are Servant, and not Komaeda. I’ve gained this identity with time, as have you. I’ve  _ earned _ this identity with time. The Kamukura project was my trial, and through tribulation I have earned a name greater than my original. Does that make sense?”

He doesn’t like that comparison. He does not like it one bit, “But you call me Komaeda,” He tells him, so monotone and blank that he might as well be copying Kamukura’s tone. But it’s weak. And Kamukura has never once been weak. 

Thus it must be his own.

“I do,” Kamukura does  _ not _ smile, “Quite the contradiction, wouldn’t you say?”

  
  


==

The best sort of lie, is the one based in truth.

It’s something he knows well, has utilized himself on more then one occasion. 

They do know Kamukura’s face, by a technicality.  _ Should _ know his name. By a technicality. Kamukura has never given him the full story. But he knows the names of the people at the top of the Future Foundation. Has known them from the start. 

“Sorry to suddenly barge in like this, uh-” Naegi stumbles over himself.

“Hinata,” Kamukura finishes for him, and Servant can see his gaze flickering between the two of them. 

(He does not miss the way it lands on Kirigiri. Even Kamukura cannot his himself completely behind his act. Perhaps thats a flaw in it. Perhaps it’s only something Servant notices. But he see’s through it, the way he’s taking in everything about her. The way she stands, looks around the room, her identity, her being)

“Right. Hinata-san,” Polite, he notes, “and..” He tilts his head to look back at him, still stood against the doorway to their kitchen, “.. Komaeda-san?” 

Servant, carefully, does not like the note of recognition in his tone. But he smiles, nods, and offers a polite, “Oh! Yes, that would be me.”

Naegi smiles brighter, and the suspicion that he thinks he might have goes with it, “You’re looking better than when I last saw you! I suppose you were a little out of it though..” He rubs the back of his neck, like he’s realizing he said something he maybe should not have.

Servant looks to Kamukura for an answer, as he always does.

“He was there, when we were rescued,” The final word is carefully not emphasized, because Servant doesn’t need emphasis to know when to follow a story, “He helped get me a position.”

Kirigiri, he notes, does not say anything.

She does not play nice with others, either.

==

“Why did you-  _ He _ agree to it?”

“I do not know for certain. I told you, did I not? I do not remember. No one would tell me. However, I imagine he wanted to be more than he was. He wanted what he could not gain on his home. He wanted talent.”

“...” He stares up at the ceiling, “What a horrid existence,” he laughs, and it's blanker then intended. 

“Perhaps. Somewhat.”

“Was it worth it though,” He’s not quiet, before asking it, “Would you go through it again?”

“Those are two very different questions. I would not. Go through it again, I mean.” Kamukura blinks, “I would rather live through the tragedy for the rest of my life, then go back to the Kamukura project.”

“Was it  _ worth _ it though?” 

Kamukura... clenches his fist. 

“I was created perfectly. I was shaped to their exact image, shifted and changed under mortal hands,” He holds his hand up to the ceiling, “Created from human flesh, blood, and bone. Thus My creation was doomed to be flawed. In that regard, it seems foolish to say it was worth it.”

It’s quiet. Kamukura’s breathing is heavy. 

Servant slowly, hesitantly, reaches up to grab his hand and pull it back. Pull Kamukura’s attention back to him. He goes the extra mile in this, shifting so his face is pressed into Kamukura’s shoulder, wraps his arm to his waist tight enough that he cannot, will not, flee. 

Kamukura does not push him away.

“It was not worth it. But I do not regret it. It gave me what I could otherwise not have. I think that, in itself, deserve credit.”

He does notice Kamukura’s hand rest to his arm. He does not say anything about it.

  
  


==

They gather carefully around the table. 

In a way, it’s sort of exciting. They don’t often have guests (This is the  _ first _ time they’ve had guests, really.) Kamukura has cooked a meal great enough for four, and Servant knows better than to follow their usual routine. Eating as an equal is easier, when it’s about the show of it. 

Kirigiri, who hasn’t even grabbed herself a plate, “We were going to ask if you’d consider an office position,” She mentions, off hand, eyes Naegi’s plate like she does not trust it. He wonders what kind of silent conversation they’ve had. The kind he can’t see, but knows they can hold.

“I’m afraid not. My health has always been horrible,” Kamukura like it’s an admission, folds his hands together, “I spent two years of my life in the hospital. In my teenage years. Went through quite a few surgeries.”

Servant eyes him. Curious, “Mine isn’t any better,” He says at last, a much more honest admission. However, he is not as quick to admit how  _ diseased _ he is.

Kamukura saves him, “Though. That isn’t proper business discussion, is it?”

Naegi, for what it’s worth, still smiles, “It’s fine. It makes sense, considering..” Servant’s not sure what they’re meant to be considering, but Kamukura seems to know. 

“Considering,” He agrees.

“It’s a shame,” She says, conversationally, “You’re quite skilled at what you do.”

“I am,” He agrees, “I spent most of despair attempting to find odd jobs. Survival is funny, like that.”

Servants fork accidentally scrapes against the plate.

==

“But what did they do to you,” Servant asks him.

“Anything they had to, to keep me tamed. I remember being sick for quite a long time, when I first came to be. I was poisoned. To raise my immunity to it,” He considers, “I almost froze to death, once. At some point, I had to give myself any shot I needed. Any stitches, or treat any burns.”

Servant closes his eyes. He knows, has seen, that Kamukura heals very quickly. That main means very little to him.

He’s never wondered why.

“I understand the logistics of it, of course. To obtain talent, to test talent, you must put someone through the logical extremes. To control something stronger then you, you pacifism is not an option. To detach them from their humanity, to create a tool, you must treat them beyond that. And yet to them, I was both a god and a tool. I was something incredible, but something to be dirtied. They did not trust my judgement. They did not trust my word. They disregarded me as something foolish, despite creating something above them.”

“Their fate is little more then Karma, then,” Servant finishes for him, “Something self fulfilled. They created a god, and neglected it.”

“Enoshima understood that feeling. Of disregard. Of being ignored for what you were. She understood the boredom. Apathy of knowing too much, but being given nothing in return for your troubles,” Kamukura says, slowly, “I believe she was the first one to truly understand this feeling. Not the only one. But the first.”

He’s prepared to leave it at that. Leave the point alone, Leave Kamukura be. But Kamukura’s grip on him tightens, and he (of all things) curls up into Servant’s grip, “I do not like talking about this,” He tells Servant, like it’s something pointed.

Kamukura’s never felt so small against him.

==

He sees Kamukura calculating, part way through the meal.

Narrowed eyes and a dazed look. Hes been staring at Kirigiri for the longest time, quiet and unforgiving. He has not been subtle. Even Servant has noticed the way the air has stiffened around them, has noticed the fact that the two of them have been eyeing them for a good few minutes now. 

Anything, he thinks, can be used as a weapon.

Servant raises a hand to the white knuckle grip Kamukura has on his fork, and it immediately softens. 

Kamukura looks at him like an animal thats been pulled away from it’s hunt. He has to wonder which ultimate he was enlisting for this. What he’s been pulled from.

Naegi is looking at him with a long, thoughtful look. Like he's just realized something. Kirigiri’s look is far less of a realization. Her hand is by her sides instead of on the table, and he thinks he remembers that she has a gun. Kamukura seems to have noticed this as well. 

“Perhaps,” Kamukura tells them, mutely, “I should take my leave.”

“Huh?” Servant is surprised. Kirigiri is not.

“You should,” Kirigiri tells him, and folds her hands on the table.

And Servant, isn’t good at sitting alone. He isn’t good at having the attention on him. So he places his fork down, “I’m going to check on him.”

He does not wait for a reply.

==

“I cannot help but feel as though I should have died,” Is the final thing Kamukura admits to him that night. It’s not with fear. It’s not with anger. It’s with mild acceptance, resignation, “That I should not be here. I think they were prepared to kill me, for my flaws.”

Servant might as well taste blood.

==

He finds Kamukura in their bedroom, sitting on the end of the bed like he’s been there for hours. 

“Kamukura-kun,” He says his name before he enters entirely, to let him know that he’s there. Kamukura doesn’t look at him, entirely. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that the man didn’t hear him.

"The Detectives father," he says, finally just rubbing at his head, "He was the final name to have signed off on the Kamukura project. It seems pointless, to blame a child for the sins of their father,” He stalls, “She has his face.”

Servant lingers in the doorway. Kamukura’s hair covers most of his face from view, tilted in such a way that it gathers in his lap. He wonders what he’d see, if he drew it back from view. Realistically, he knows he’d see nothing. That his expression would probably be as blank as ever, that he’s just staring at the ground like he does.  
But the way he says;

“I’m not sure what came over me. I do not know why I did that.”

Has Servant thinking he might just seem distressed, behind it all.

==

“It was nice meeting you. I’m sorry we had to cut it short,” Servant tells them, “You know how despair can be. Such a nasty thing. We’re all healing from it, you know.”

“Yeah. It was though!” Naegi nods, “Trust me. It’s not the worst thing we’ve seen out here.”

The look Naegi exchanges with Kirigri tells Servant they know something  _ more _ . 

They don’t mention it.

“The food wasn’t poisoned, you know,” He feels rushed to tell Kirigiri this fact, eyebrows furrowing, “It’s not. I know what you’re thinking. It’s really not.”

She.. Almost smiles. Just barely, “I am aware,” Her tone is as professional as it had been throughout the rest of dinner, “I ate already, earlier. That's all.”

“Oh.” He says, “Okay.”

"It was really good food.. Like. Really good," Naegi admits, and of course it was. He wonders if she knows she missed out on food cooked by an Ultimate chef

She offers Naegi one more look before she leaves. 

...

“Do you think we can talk?” Naegi asks. He expects it to be rushed, or at least somewhat nervous. It is not. He says it with such firmness and determination, that Servant is momentarily taken aback.

“Well. It would be rude to say no, wouldn’t it?”

They go walking around that pond.

Far enough away to get privacy, but not far enough away to be a hike.  A roll of thunder threatens overhead. He thinks he might know what it's about, before Naegi says it.

“.. You know,” is all Servant can say, grips the multitool in his pocket hard. It’s going to leave a mark on his hand.

“I do,” When Naegi laughs, its nervous enough to be understandable, but sincere enough not to be insulting, “We went to school together. I remember seeing you around sometimes. 77-a?”

“77-b, actually,” He’s not insulted when he corrects him. Easy mistake to make, “I thought Junko erased your memories.”

Naegi doesn’t flinch at the sound of his name, “Future Foundation helped get them back,” And then, like he hadn’t said her name, “I’ve been trying to remember what your talent was all night, but it keeps escaping me.”

“Lucky student,” He answers him before he can say anything else “Like you.” And then, “Though, I’m sure your talent is far more impressive than my own! Mine has never been impressive, you see. Not compared to everyone else.” Not compared to any amount of hope.

Naegi is carefully not startled, but he doesn’t hide his confusion well. And Enoshima did nothing if not teach him when to shut up.

“Ah. I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Sounds right, “Not anymore. What are you going to do about this?” Because he’s better at hiding his nerves then Naegi. Because he knows how to smile through it.

“Oh! At the moment?” Naegi tilts his head back as he thinks. Servant expects a lot of things, in that moment. He expects to maybe, even have to take the multitool out and stab him. He thinks he can take him, if he has to. Servant has taken people far bigger and far more violent then Naegi Makoto. 

But the idea of hurting him sits wrong in his stomach (Hope, he reminds himself, Ultimate Hope. Not Kamukura, but still hope.) and the last thing he wants to do is force Kamukura and himself to uproot again, and Naegi surprises him despite this by laughing, of all things, and saying, “I guess nothing!”

“.. What?”

“It's not like you're really doing anything. Actually, from what I’ve heard Hinata is sort of a huge help. I don't think we have anyone else that gets anything done as quickly as he does!” Naegi laughs  _ again _ , rubs the back of his neck  _ again _ , “I think they’d kill me for arresting one of their most effective workers.”

And that doesn’t sit right with him. It’s not relief that he feels, nor is it joy. It’s something akin to anger. That Naegi thinks nothing of their crimes. Despite having been at least somewhat prepared to stab him, if he must, he finds that reasoning to be so  _ foolish _ . Naegi should be angry at him. Naegi should be prepared to turn them in. There should be some kind of argument about this, shouldn’t there? He should earn his right to freedom, shouldn’t he?

He’s not sure what he wants, in that moment. 

“I kidnapped your sister, you know,” Servant can't help but smile, bitter and sharp. Naegi stills as he watches him, doesn’t seem to miss the sudden shake that comes over him, “We helped end the world,  _ you know _ . We helped set up the killing game that killed your friends. Kamukura- Hinata, ah, we watched it through it’s entirety with  _ pride _ ,” Servant does not normally stumble so badly, “We helped  _ her _ . The world deserves to judge us for our crimes. To obtain  _ retribution _ , you know.”

It’s not until Naegi’s gaze falls to something a little more calculate does he feel bad for his own words. Does he snapback, even somewhat.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” And he doesn’t. It’s something that’s been sitting in the back of his mind throughout the conversation, a point that’s loomed over him

“No. You did. I know that,” Servant must look somewhat critical, because Naegi corrects with, “Well. I  _ assumed _ that. But.. that's in the past, isn’t it?” 

“Well.”

“If you stay out of trouble, I don't see the point in acting,” he speaks carefully, “I think.. Everyone deserves a second chance. A chance at forgiveness. I don’t think Future Foundation is as accepting,” He doesn’t seem happy about that, “They shoot first, without any questions. That’s never sat right with me. Isn’t that just playing into her hands? We had enough death in our world, haven’t we?”

Servant… nods, slowly. 

“Then that's enough for me. I think.”

They stand at the edge of that pond for another minute. Servant knows, because he counts the seconds by as they go. He watches, as a sprinkle of rain begins to touch the surface of the pond and ripple through the surface. There would be frogs out tonight. He thinks he might just open their window a crack, and take a chance to enjoy the croaking.

“I should probably go,” Naegi says, and steps back from him, “Kirigiri-san and I still have to convince Imai-san that Future Foundation isn’t trying to  _ destroy _ her livelihood by going through her collection,” He seems bemused, if nothing else.

Servant decides that maybe. Maybe Naegi Makoto is not too bad. Even if he did kill Enoshima.


	11. healing pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant, carefully, does not overstep

There's a pack of multivitamins and pills in their cupboard he's expected to take daily. 

It's organized in cute little clutters of oranges and yellows, whites with greys and blues. 

Kamukura has always known how to tempt him, with even the smallest of treats. He doesn’t like medication, doesn’t like pills whatsoever. But he likes the look of them gathered together. Likes coming back to them every morning, poking them around a little to make the sizes match before he takes them.

(Sometimes he accidentally comes around and almost takes them twice. Sometimes he still doesn’t remember to take them, and has Kamukura push them his way over their dinner. There’s no disappointment in his gaze. No shame to be had. He’s not avoiding a direct order, he’s not disobeying, he’s just forgotten. Only forgotten. He would never disobey.)

//

  
  


It’s not that he can’t bathe alone.

He can, of course, in theory. He just does not  _ like _ to. He does not like being left to his own thoughts for long periods of time, and he will inevitably get lost in them. And getting lost in your thoughts, when you’re alone, is dangerous. Use to be dangerous, anyway. 

Besides. Kamukura likes having help with his hair. If he doesn’t drag him in with him Kamukura sometimes just won’t shower. It’s easier, he knows, to pull Kamukura in with him, and sometimes they’ll get handsy, but more often than not it’s just to have someone else there with him. 

However, sometimes he does need to shower alone. Sometimes, Kamukura disappears as he does, for what is not an inconsequential amount of time. And that is fine of course. It will always be fine. He’s just checks to make sure he locks the bedroom and the bathroom door, like they did back with despair, checks to make sure he has a knife within reach just incase, and always makes that the bathmat is actually held down because if he slips there won’t be anyone to hear it, and he will die. And that seems like a particularly bad way to die.

And when he showers, he just tries to make it brief. Because thats all he can do. Because if he doesn’t, he begins to think of despair again. It’s easier to fixate on despair, then it is hope. Hope is coming to him easier these days, when he steps outside and breaths in fresh mountain air, or when he sneaks through the files Future Foundation sends Kamukura that he’s not technically suppose to have access to, but always manages to find. And he sees pictures of towns, and families, and knows that maybe he helped kill some of them but  _ most _ of them are flourishing now.

But despair still holds him. Because when he squints down at the stump of his arm through the water he always, without fail, see’s a hand that is no longer there.

  
  


//

He remembers Kamukura sitting with Tsumiki as they talked over it.

It had not been Kamukura’s first choice. Servant had almost dared to protest him, found solace in an overly polite smile and an especially sharp tongue. He knew it wouldn’t be any use to try and convince him otherwise.

“And- And why would I help you?” She’d asked, with a voice so soft he’d almost think it was hiding something poisoned, “I have better things to do with my time.”

“Because Junko would not want her second favorite toy to rot away from an illness you could help prevent.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him. Something dangerous, and cold. Something that Enoshima had been careful to shape, and burn into her. But Kamukura had always known how to say the right thing. How to get what he’d needed.

“What’s wrong with him?” She’d ask, annoyance unhidden and bitterness unfiltered.

“... frontotemporal dementia and advanced lymphoma,” 

He’d been so angry at the time. That Kamukura would tell  _ her _ , that . He wasn’t allowed to speak on it, at the time. Couldn’t bring himself to say anything against it. So instead he’d sat patiently, gripping her hand in his own.

It only made sense that he owned it. He was rotting away, just like she was.

“ _ What _ ,” Her reaction is kneejerk, her mask shattering and gaze widening, “What do you think I can do about that?”

“You do not have to do anything,” Kamukura had always been so patient with them, “I only need supplies.”

Tsumiki looks at him. Looks at Kamukura, “Only supplies?” She says. Her breathing is heavy, “But that won’t do, will it? How do I know you’re not just here to  _ steal _ from me? How do I know you’re not just going to ruin this??”

Servant is silent.

“I want to make sure, that he’s dying. Before you  _ take _ from me.”

The look he gives Kamukura isn’t nasty, exactly. But it’s not pleased, either.

//

Sometimes, when they’re laying in bed together, Servant can still smell the toothpaste on Kamukura’s breath.

Kamukura doesn’t use mint toothpaste. It burns his mouth. He won’t even use cinnamon toothpaste. Instead, he uses this strawberry flavored stuff that they get from the dollar store down the first block in town, and it costs a lot more than a dollar, because  _ everything _ costs more than a dollar these days. But it makes his breath smell particular sweet, and he realizes the smell has become a comfort.

It’s an odd thing he finds himself considering. 

He only considers for a moment how foriegn feeling unwashed is, now. It use to be familiar. He use to have hair so dirty that the water ran dark when he washed it. Was use to the taste of dust and debris in his mouth, of feeling sweat cling to him like despair itself. 

He’s use to seeing Kamukura’s hair tangled and messed. He tried is best with upkeep in despair, of course. But sometimes they didn’t have somewhere safe to rest for the night, and sometimes Kamukura had to leave him for very long periods of time, and sometimes it was just that Servant had a habit of  _ loosing _ or  _ breaking _ their brushes, and he’s use to running his fingers, his good ones, through Kamukura’s hair and catching the tangles immediately. 

He’s use to blood drying on their clothing because they don’t have immediate access to water, and he’s use to walking so far in his shoes that he works holes into them and they need to get lucky in finding ones that will fit. They always did, of course, find what they needed.

Except he’s not used to it anymore. Because Kamukura’s breath smells like toothpaste, and he can bathe without the worry that he will be stabbed, or that the water will run with rust, or won’t run at all, and when he reaches over to run his fingers through Kamukura’s hair the strands are smooth. He doesn’t think he could go back to being use to that life. Because he, decidedly, likes being clean. He, with more confidence, likes seeing Kamukura clean.

.

.

.

(He wonders what he’d do to keep it from slipping through his fingers. What he has to do to make sure it never slips away.)

//

  
  


There had been a time, when they were visiting Tsumiki.

He’d felt especially horrid, that day. They’d arrived early, too early. The sound of screams wasn’t something foreign to him exactly, but they were always particularly loud in Tsumiki's hospital. Particularly intimate. 

They’d spent their time in the waiting room, of all places. Like this was a normal check up, like the sounds of drills wasn’t echoing to their room. Kamukura had sat proper on a leather couch, and Servant had spent the time leaned against him.

Again, like it was normal. Maybe it was, at that point.

Tsumiki had stood in the doorway, for a moment. Watching them. And he knows it’s her, because her heels sounded suspiciously like Enoshima’s did, and because Kamukura hadn’t even flinched when the door opened.

But she’d just watched them.

“Oh,” She’d said, and the weakness in her voice is sincere, “You’re here.”

//

“Do you think you’ll ever get bored of me. Do you think you’ll ever want to be rid of me?”

Servant tends to ask this when Kamukura gets back. When the weight of isolation weighs too heavy on him, and the feeling of loneliness has lingered for far too long.

“It is inevitable that I will grow bored of you. I grow bored of everything,” Kamukura tells him, “However. You are mine. I do not see why I would rid myself of what is rightfully mine.”

And this is how the interaction normally goes.

Kamukura pauses today, to consider it, “Will you ever tire of taking care of me?” He asks, with enough curiosity in his voice that Servant almost thinks that it’s sincere, “Will you ever grow bored of your duties?”

“Never!” His reply is immediate, and chipper. That despite everything, he still knows his place, “I would follow Kamukura-kun to a grave.”

“Then it is improper, to expect differently of me. Would you disagree?”

He’s not sure if he would.

//

Kamukura had stepped outside, because Tsumiki liked privacy when she worked. Because she didn’t have to put on an act. He knows Kamukura isn’t too far, would never leave him with her. But the facade is there. 

Her breathing isn’t as heavy as it normally is.

“Its not fair,” She’d hissed out, pinching his skin with perhaps a little too much force, “It’s not fair that you got to keep him. And I had to loose her,“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He tells her, smiles.

“Please. You don’t think I know  _ love _ when I see it. The others might be blind. But I  _ know _ love. I had love. I had love, and now I don’t.” 

“I’ve never been quiet about my worship, Tsumiki-san.” He breaths, “I lost her too, you know,” 

“It’s not the  _ same _ . You know it’s not the same,” She tries to glare at Her hand, but instead it softens to something distant, “She was my beloved. How would you feel, if someone came and attempted to steal your place? How would  _ you _ feel?? I had a place, and it was taken from me. I had someone to love me, and she was taken from me.”

They’re quiet, save for the bare bones of her mumblings. Her breathing gets heavier and she;

“Take what you need and leave,” She tells him. He thinks it’s suppose to be forceful, but instead it's just the blank, easy taste of despair. But when she throws the needle at the trash it’s with enough force that it hits the wall.

//

“Can I see your scar?” He asks, into the dim light of their bedroom one evening.

Kamukura looks asleep. He’s not. He’s spent part of the day staring at the covered window like a mild fixation, like he sees something Servant cannot. He doesn’t have to do that. He’s beginning to dislike when Kamukura does that for too long. But he understands better than anyone else, how easy it is to get lost in your own head, and the only thing he can do is clean for him and make sure he actually eats that day.

Kamukura is still against him. Then slowly. Easily. He rolls over to face him again and nods.

Servant reaches over to brush strands of hair aside his face. Kamukura’s eyes close under his touch, and don’t open as his fingers brush close to his skin. That means he doesn’t see that, for a moment, he’s not looking at the scar that lines his forehead. Instead, he’s taken the chance to gaze at his face again. Take in the little details again. He has bags under his eyes. A few freckles here and there. Not enough to be overpowering, but enough that he can trace them. His lips are cracked a little, but his cheeks are soft. 

He wonders if he’s already observed this already. If the curse of a tainted memory is blessed by his ability to experience and admire Kamukura, as he is, time and time again. Like the luck cycle he only needs to worry about when Kamukura disappears, he wonders how much it gives and how much it takes.

Kamukura is not perfect, but still beautiful. And selfish as it might be, he finds himself thinking that Kamukura might just be  _ his _ .

Maybe Kamukura still realizes what he’s doing, because Servant traces a line down his jaw, and lets his thumb brush his cheekbone, and when he finds himself wobbling from a lack of balance Kamukura carefully reaches to hold him steady.

“Kamukura-kun?”

Kamukura does not answer him, but he does open his eyes. And Servant, by now, does look over his scar with some amount of fascination and care.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you,” He tells him, repeats it so Kamukura knows his truth.

“... I am aware.”

“Do you really think if it weren’t for this, I wouldn’t?” He asks, quietly almost surprises himself when he does. He doesn’t give Kamukura the time to reply. Continues, immediately, “I think I’d know. I think that’s my answer. I think I would just know.”

“...” Kamukura tilts his head down, forces the hair back in his face, “You’re giving yourself too much credit,” He tells him, eventually. But he must have said something right, because Kamukura shifts to force him to fall onto the bed next to him, and Servant is wrapped up in a touch that is near possessive.


	12. winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it snows.

The further in the season they get the colder the world becomes, until the outside is in hues of grey and white and the chill that drifts through the house is too strong to ignore.

"Isn't it pretty," he'd sigh, dreamy like, as he makes an attempt to huddle closer to Kamukura. It can’t be understated how much warmer Kamukura is by nature. Even under two sweaters and a jacket, he still feels the winter chill get to him. Still occasionally shivers and shakes under the layers. He finds himself huddling closer to Kamukura more often, curls up in his lap where he can, attaches to his arm where he can’t. 

(It’s too cold to lay at Kamukura’s feet now. Kamukura has, notedly, taken to working at the Kotatsu with him. Papers spread out across the table, files he knows he technically should not see, a laptop his eyes are too tired to rest on.)

He’s grateful, in that Kamukura seems to easily adapt for his weight.

“We will get a space heater,” Kamukura tells him, as he reaches over to place another blanket over his shoulders. And Servant wants to tell him that really, that feels like overkill, that it’s fine. But it does make the cold a little more bearable, and Kamukura goes so far to wrap himself in it as well. 

So he can’t say he minds too much.

//

He can’t go into town as much anymore. Not alone, anyway.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. But the cold strings his lungs, unforgivably so, and it makes the walk all the more horrid. He almost collapsed the second time he attempted. He gets sick the third time.

It’s not just the cold, he thinks. The pathways are hidden by snow, and it snows just enough to be troublesome to walk though. 

He hates it. Hates himself for his inability to fight something so small, and his lousy, no good, _rotting_ , body for collapsing in on itself. He hates feeling caged in his own home, paces on the porch way until he’s pulled back inside. 

//

  
  


Their meals are getting heavier now.

Thick stews made with the crockpot, hot pots between only the two of them. The kind of meals where they take turns throwing in ingredients. Servant thinks Kamukura  _ might _ be letting him go first to adjust for whatever foot he puts in, but Servant never really asks. Their meals turn out fine, delicious really, and nothing bad has come of it yet.

“Did you know that most moss still grows under the snow, Kamukura-kun?” He asks, off handed, as he throws in a few cuts of tomato.

Kamukura nods.

“And that it can grow on anything from pavement, to tree’s, and shoes,” He continues, mindlessly, scraping the last of the tomato off his knife, “I was reading about it last night.”

Kamukura nods again.

“... Am I boring you?” He asks, at last. Kamukura does not seem too enthused. Then again, Kamukura is never really enthused. He has to remind himself, sometimes, that Kamukura probably knows everything he says. 

Sometimes, he has to wonder if he’s told Kamukura this already. If he’s forgotten. 

“I... do not mind listening,” Kamukura assures him, attention not slipping once from the onions he’s chopping up. It doesn’t make him feel any better. But he supposed it didn’t matter too much.

He’s always been something of an annoyance to him.

//

  
  


Sometimes, Kamukura will come with him.

He likes those best, because it’s easier to push himself when Kamukura is there. He doesn’t have a collar on when they go out into town, but when Servant tightens his hold on Kamukura’s hand it’s sort of the same thing.

The town looks different in the winter. The roads are normally cracked, overgrown with weeds, lined with little market stalls because not a lot of people have cars anymore. Now they’re emptier, snow lined, and the lanterns that hang from the shops seem somehow dimmer. 

Sometimes they’ll stop by a bakery window, or a sweet shop, or a clothing shop, or even just a convenience store. Somewhere where the lights are low, but the inside is warm, and he’ll stall long enough that they eventually just go in. 

“It’s like despair never happened, sometimes,” He’ll tell Kamukura, as he stirs a coffee and warms up. Kamukura replies with a small hum. He never eats anything when they’re out, doesn’t like eating in public. Kamukura might be too... overwhelmed. He’s never said as much, but he gets the same sort of expression on his face that he had when the entire class gathered together. Not nearly as chaotic, but certainly not as peaceful as their still little home in the forest.

//

He tries to clean, but finishes faster than necessary. Tries to practice piano, but gets frustrated faster than he can play.

(He knows how to read the notes, knows the keys across the piano. He doesn’t need Kamukura to sit with him to guide him, even if he likes it when he’s there. But sometimes, the notes swarm across the page he’s looking at, and sometimes, he hits the wrong key and his thoughts swarm as he attempts to figure out the right one, and it never really works and

It’s just his luck, he thinks. Just his  _ luck.) _

//

  
  


Othertimes, Kamukura goes alone.

Rather, it’s more often that Kamukura goes alone. Their days out together are a nice change of pace, but it’s easier to get what he needs and return home. He’s said as much, and Servant can assume as much. 

He, more often than not, comes back with a stack of books bigger than Servant himself could carry. He always seems to find things he knows Servant will take interest in. Servant has a tendency to get lost while looking for stories, traps himself in aisles for hours in an attempt to find the right ones. Kamukura always seems to just  _ know _ .

Other times, he comes back with odder gifts. Once, Kamukura comes back with a bracelet, made with some kind of gold. It’s a little bit tarnished, a little scratched up. But it has elegant, small engravings of suns with what he thinks is a pearl in it and he admires it despite the damage.

“I will polish it properly later,” Kamukura tells him, ignoring the wide eyed look he gives in return.

(He doesn’t think it needs polished. It’s perfect, exactly as it is. But he doesn’t tell Kamukura that, and Kamukura doesn’t force it from his hands.)

Another time, Kamukura comes back from a trip into town and places a box at his hands. It’s got a bit of weight to it

“What’s this?” Servant asks, curious.

“A gift.” 

Servant takes the time to neatly open the packaging, “It’s.. a camera,” He notes, blinks. Turns it about in his hand. 

“...” Kamukura nods, “It is film. I would have preferred to get you digital, however there are not many to be found anymore. I found it at the second hand shop. I will develop any picture you take,” He says this in a single, monotonous breath. He’s yet to sit down, staring and still and hoovering like he tends to do.

Servant says nothing. He marvels at the gift in his hand, turning it over a few times in his hands. It feels wrong. Like it shouldn’t fit there. 

“... You struggle to remember. This may help you remember,” Kamukura tilts his head, “This is.. Okay?”

“Its wonderful,” Servant raises the camera up and snaps a picture. Kamukura look bemused, “I want to remember you” He tells him, with certainty, “I never want to forget you.”

Kamukura stares at him.

He takes another picture.

//

The food is set to simmer throughout most of the day, and he’s technically free to come take some whenever he likes. The food is his, technically speaking. But he struggles to convince himself, because he likes eating with Kamukura, still feels best eating after him instead of before. 

Kamukura’s brows furrow when he mentions this. Like he didn’t know.

“Eat when you’re hungry,” Kamukura says it in the tone of an order. Then, noticing the look on his face, “Find me, when you’re hungry. I will sit with you.”

“You should eat first,” Servant tells him, insists it. Then quieter, “You don’t eat, unless you eat first. Maybe you will be hungrier, if I don't.”

“I.. Will not always be hungry, when you are.”

Servant does not reply. 

(He does, however, eventually grab himself a bowl of food. And Kamukura, eventually, still eats. Servant knows, because he watches him. So maybe that's a change of pace for the better.

Just maybe.)

//

  
  


Servant likes looking at the way moonlight hits the snow. Pure white, like glitter. Like diamonds, if he’s being hyperbole. It sort of reminds him of the way sunlight hits the ocean. An endless sheet of white, escaping the the treeline and beyond.

He admires it while laying in bed, despite the way it allows the chill to seep further into the room. Kamukura traces a line down his back under the blanket, and despite the fact that the touch is stiff it is  _ there _ . He wonders if Kamukura knows that something as small as the brush of his finger tips sends more goosebumps down his back then the cold itself. 

It’s not that it feels forbidden, anymore. But he is unuse to a touch so soft coming from Kamukura. The most he tends to do, even now, is run a hand through his hair. He wonders if it’s suppose to coax him back.

“The longer you stare, the colder it will get,” Kamukura tells him. It’s not an order quite yet, but he knows one is coming. Know’s it’s inevitable. 

“But it’s so pretty, Kamukura-kun,” He mumbles, reaching over to touch the glass, “It’s like  _ diamonds _ . I’ve always liked diamonds, you know.”

“You are tired.”

“I’m always tired,” It’s carefully not a complaint, but carefully not  _ just _ a rebuttal, “I don’t want to be tired.”

Kamukura stalls, “I cannot fix that for you. I am sorry.”

He thinks he sees a rabbit in the beyond of the snow. He wonders how it survives on it’s own.

(The last time he'd seen snow, it had been stained red and black, creating the oddest color of slush. They’d had to walk through it, stepping carefully around bodies and abandoned bits of debris. Occasionally, Kamukura would reach over and guide him by the small of the back, to assure that he’d not slip on hidden patches of ice or step in the odd pool of blood.

Blood, when mixed alone in snow, looks sort of like ruby instead of diamond.)

Kamukura beckons him with a raise of his arm, and despite his enamorment with the world beyond, he’ll always come when he’s called. Especially for Kamukura. Now, really, only for Kamukura.

(He is, he notes, just far enough away that he can still run the end of the curtain through his fingers. But the chill does not touch him entirely anymore, and when he lays still enough he can feel Kamukura’s breath touch his skin.)

“You’re heavier now,” Kamukura notes, tucking his head under his chin.

“Oh,” He says, and thumbs the curtain shut, “Sorry.”

“Do not apologize for that.”

And then he doesn’t say anything else.

...

It really has been a while since he’s seen the ocean. He wonders if Kamukura will take him when it gets warm again.


	13. A.M.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant speaks, thinks, and dreams of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter contains suicide imagery

All of their clocks are digital clocks.

This is something he knows most people wouldn’t notice, or even care about. But he finds distinct awareness in their blank red glow. 

He thinks, originally, that it's for himself. That Kamukura might think his brain has deteriorated to the point of being inability to even read the time alone. He’d be insulted, if that was the case. Insulted at the assumption, 

The house came with a beautiful pendulum clock, is the thing.

He use to think Kamukura liked it. He’d spend hours watching as it swung back and forth. He knows Kamukura likes anything like that. Takes appreciation of the falling of leaves, the way water runs between rocks in a creek. The little things, that Servant only sometimes notices. And Servant like this. Prefers this, to Kamukura staring at nothing. Because if he’s staring at  _ something _ , then maybe he’s not entirely lost to the world.

And one day Servant wakes up and the clock is destroyed. Not violently. Not crushed. But there are gears on the table, the strings pulled apart, the bits and pieces pushed into carefully organized piles. Kamukura’s destruction has always been elegant, and careful.

“It kept falling out of time,” is what Kamukura tells him, attention already turnt to the laptop, "the ticking bored me."

Servant does not think the digital clocks are for his sake. Not really.

//

It’s not that he is sleeping less. 

He is, somewhat. Sometimes when he crawls over and lays himself down next to Kamukura, he doesn’t fall asleep immediately. Despite the fact that exhaustion crawls up his arms, and fatigue weighs him back. He doesn’t sleep. 

And supposedly, thats a good thing. That despite the cold, he’s awake more then he’s asleep. Even without the energy to to anything. 

It’s not that he’s sleeping less. It’s that he’s left watching Kamukura, left trapped his thoughts as the other sleeps.

===

  
  


They’ve taken to sleeping under the kotatsu at night. 

It’s just high enough off the ground that he can lay on his side, with enough room that he can curl up against Kamukura without touching the heater. 

It feels… Too bright. Too noisy. Too open sometimes. He’s use to having Kamukura on one side of him, a wall on the other. But when they’re under the kotatsu, the most he can do is usher himself into Kamukura’s grasp, and attempt to block out the accessibility of the rest of the world

He keeps a knife tucked just within reach, just in case. Kamukura does not do the same, but Kamukura does not need to do the same.

Sometimes, when they’re laying together under the Kotatsu, they’ll touch.

It can be as simple as light touches on bare sides, as rough as scratch marks on broken skin. Easy fondling against rough rutting. Servant will sometimes wake Kamukura up with that, boldened, and Kamukura will yank at his hair in return, and in the morning they both wake up with bite marks webbed across their skin. And that feels right. 

Other Times, they’ll talk. Just talk.

Well. Generally speaking, Servant will ask questions, and Kamukura will answer them. But thats how their conversations always go. And he doesn’t mind, because Kamukura has always been like that.

But there’s always been something about lying where they should not that has given him confidence. Where the laptop port blinks on the table above him, the tv hums with it’s static and low light. When he’s running the stump of his arm up Kamukura’s side to raise his shirt, and holds such distinct awareness in his inability to keep his mouth shut.

“Kamukura-kun,” He asks, so softly he almost does not hear himself, “Do you honestly ever think you’ll ever want to leave me?”

“...”

“It’s okay if you say yes. I’ll probably understand that better then no! I just want to be prepared. Just in case the answer is yes,” He allows himself that small of a lie. He’s always been prepared for Kamukura to leave him. He still fear, knows, that one day Kamukura will leave for a walk and never come back.

In that regard, he does not blame Kamukura for hesitating to answer.

“I do not think I could leave you,” Kamukura decides. When Servant laughs, it’s not to mock him. It’s not even nerves. He finds the statement to be funny, sincerely.

Kamukura does not think it’s funny.

“You do not believe me,” He notes, impartial and soft.

“It’s hard to believe.”

“.. I think I’ve grown just as attached to you, as you are to me. I have expressed this before, have I not?” And Servant is quiet. Because Kamukura knows the extent to his attachment. Knows there’s no limit to his adoration. He’s gotten to his knees and preached his devotion, has shown his loyalty and love through touch and declaration. From day one, he’s worshiped. From day one, he’s adored.

Servant knows the extent of his love, and he cannot imagine it as requited. 

Kamukura continues, “I do not plan on leaving you. I will stay with you, until you pass. And the day you die is the day I am fated to die as well.”

And it does not take nearly as long, for Servant to know that Kamukura is  _ serious _ . 

“I think.. Thats a scarier thought than you leaving me!” He laughs, but its not joyful. It’s nervous, and low, “Tell me you won’t do anything drastic, if that happens. I wasn’t created to live, you know!”

“I am aware,” Kamukura’s voice is calm, and just as Servant is about to reach out to grab his hand does he rolls over to gaze up at the ceiling, “Neither of us were created to live forever.”

“My existence has always been cursed, Kamukura-kun,” He says, and when he tries to grip it’s with an arm that's no longer there, “There’s an expiration on my life, you know. From the day I was born, I’ve been skitting around it. But it will take me eventually. You know that.”

“There’s an expiration date on both of our lives, and I will control mine.”

“... I  _ want _ you to live though,” Yet his voice is weak, and the word is cracked, and the idea of Kamukura dying is unthinkable to him. He wonders if thats normal. That he can visualize his own death perfectly, but Kamukura’s is unapproachable to him.

(He use to think that he would die a violent death. Bloodloss, shot through the head. But now he easily imagines himself falling asleep, and never waking up. He imagines Kamukura will simply find him cold one evening. He wouldn’t mind that death. He’s never minded death, but he almost favors the idea of that. Painless, and fooled into believing he’s loved.)

Kamukura doesn’t ignore him. He knows this, because he feels his gaze on him. But he does continue without comment, “I was brought into this world with no one. When you die, I will live with no one. I could continue to live. I could wander.”

The  _ but _ is unspoken. Because he  _ understands _ . He understands how suffocating loneliness is. Servant has lived through enough loneliness to last him a lifetime, has had that used and worked against him more times then he knows he’ll acknowledge. He wonders, only somewhat, if Kamukura knows the same. He must, if he’s willing to go to such drastic measures. 

He imagines, momentarily, Kamukura finding his body cold. Changes the scene. He wonders if Kamukura would bury him first. Wonders if he’d make a grave for him, or simply bury him under the flowers.

Then he thinks back to lying sick in bed, in a winter many moons ago. He thinks back to being wrapped up in Kamukura’s arms. How comfortable he’d been then. How peaceful it had been, despite the cold and the fever.

Kamukura wouldn’t bury him. He’d die  _ with _ him. Would choose that for himself. He imagines Kamukura would die slowly. Wouldn’t choose something painful, or bloody, but wouldn’t sit around and deteriorate with time. Kamukura’s fortitude is strong, but even he must have some will to survive.

Perhaps he’d take pills. Perhaps Future Foundation would realize one day, that they’re no longer receiving emails, or updates from them. Would find them wrapped up together. Or perhaps they’d be left and forgotten, until some unlucky traveler came about their home. Invaded their home.

He’s unsure. Perhaps it’s selfish, to think so distinctly about this.

.

.

.

(He doesn’t realize how much he’s shaking until Kamukura taps their foreheads together, gentle affirmation in a world of trepidation.)

//

And it’s not that Servant sometimes wakes up to the feeling of Kamukura’s weight on his chest.

It’s not a rare occurrence by any means these days, not really. He might even argue that he likes it. He finds comfort in it, the immediate assurance that Kamukura is there with him. Safe. He’ll feel the barest of breaths against his collarbone, the tickle of hair brush his arms every which way. 

Know’s that Kamukura trusts him enough, to sleep with him like this.

//

“What was it like?” He asks, because he can. Because he’s allowed to. Because Kamukura will share with him when he asks, because he’s allowed to shift his hair out of the way and admire now, and he’s never  _ specific _ but never seems to need to clarify. Kamukura just knows, like he always does. 

“One day I woke up, and I existed” Kamukura tells him, “And that was all. They told me my name was Kamukura Izuru. They told me I was the Ultimate Hope. I did not understand my purpose at the time. I understood a lot of things. But not my purpose.”

Servant shifts to lay closer to him. Kamukura does not move to adjust for him, but Servant still manages to slot into place with ease.

“Did you wake up like this?” Kamukura doesn’t answer him immediately, and that tells him he needs to specify, “Did you wake up…” Emotionless, distant, above him, “Talented. Were you born into your role?”

“Somewhat,” Kamukura’s shoulder’s fall, “There were many talents that I had already obtained. But many I’d yet to grasp.”

“Why though?? Did they just want to create something grander? Did they want a clean slate?”

“At first, I suspected that might be the reason,” Servant does not miss the glance he give him, “Later, I was later told that I was easier to manage. My.. former, did not take well to the brain surgeries. He was too nervous throughout. Asked too many questions, moved about too much during the procedures-”

And Servant knows it’s rude to interrupt, but he;

"You were  _ awake _ ?" He doesn’t sit up entirely. But his eyes widen, and Kamukura’s hand is the only thing that keeps him from smacking against the table.

"Sometimes." Kamukura pauses, and while he doesn’t sound amused there’s a glint of something there, "It is not an uncommon practice? They did not want to damage anything vital.”

“On  _ accident _ ,” Servant points out.

“On accident.” Kamukura agrees.

And. Servant  _ stares _ at him. His breath is gone, and his figure is still, “That sounds horrid.”

“It was not horrible,” He says, and Servant doesn’t know if he should take comfort in knowing Kamukura means it, “The brain itself cannot feel pain. I did not feel pain. I did not understand, so I did not worry.”

“And do you prefer?” He asks, “To understand?”

“... I do.”

And Servant, for all it’s worth, thinks back to that pendulum clock. He thinks back to how neatly it had been pulled apart, piece by piece, gutted from the inside out. He thinks to the shell it had left behind, propped up on the table, like it’s parts weren’t scattered and rested around it. He imagines Kamukura, laying about, dead eyed and carefully cut open.

Kamukura’s destruction has always been elegant, and beautiful. He wonders, momentarily, if that includes the destruction he reaped as well.

//

It’s not the fact that Kamukura’s stare is empty, that unnerves him.

He’s never been scared of Kamukura. Not really. From the moment he saw him, he knew he’d love and adore him. It did not matter what he did, why he did it. He was hope. He could exist as he liked. Because he’s  _ hope _ . Where others saw violence, he saw reason. Where most saw malice, he saw reprisal. Where others saw nothing, he saw everything.

And thats easy enough to wrap his head around. It always has been. 

It’s not that Kamukura looks through people, instead of at them. It’s not that he’ll spent hours staring at a crack in the walls, or watching snow pile up on the windows, or pulls apart clocks, or ignores Servant’s touch and voice and the world around him. Because when he gets like that, Servant can ease him into any position without a fight, pull him anywhere. It’s not that he’s shut down to the world. 

He knows that this is just how Kamukura is. That sometimes it’s enough to lay with him for a few hours when he gets like that. 

(Kamukura has never told him as much, but Kamukura almost always ends up lacing their fingers together, or tucked under his chin, or wrapped up in his arms. And, without hesitation, Servant will keep him safe.)

But the blankness behind Kamukura’s stare gets to him. Because he’s had time to consider it now. Considers it while Kamukura sleeps on his chest, considers the inherent and unspoken tragedy of his existence. 

He wonders if he’s scared for him. He wonders if this is what love is. He wonders if Kamukura even knows that, really.


	14. venus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant gazes upon the universe

“Komaeda, what would you say I was created to be?”

Kamukura asks this one afternoon, when the two of them are sitting together. It’s comfortable. Kamukura had, as promised, gotten them a space heater for the room. It warms them just enough that any attempt to get up is not a mad dash to and from the Kotatsu, but not enough to desire to do anything productive. 

Servant reaches over to turn the volume down, letting the movie play passively in the background. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

“You were created to be hope,” Servant answers, with certainty, “You  _ are _ hope,” 

Kamukura looks down at his tea. There’s steam rising from it. 

Kamukura’s gaze, he notes, is sharp right now.

“And your purpose?”

“To serve you,” He answers, automatically. Like a phrase thats been recorded, rooted in his subconscious, “To adore you,” He’s not sure is this is a test, of some kind.

Kamukura tilts his cup up to take a sip, “I see,” He says. 

And thats all there is to it. Kamukura reaches over to turn up the volume for him, and really. That’s all there is to it.

//

His arms amputation is sloppy, and botched.

He knows this, because he’s the one who took it. Had taken an electric hacksaw to his arm. The process had been quick. Painful. His memory of the night is hazy at best, but he distinctly remembers the sight of his own bone, remembers how easy it had been to stitch her arm onto his own, comparatively. He remembers the sickening, hypnotic feeling of despair taking him for the night. The very hand that had run through his hair, had scratched his cheek, run down his arm, marred his skin.. On his arm. On his person.

He owned her like she’d own him. He remembers the distinct pride he’d had in that.

He remembers waking up to Kamukura’s sharp gaze, looking down on him, burning into him. Kamukura hadn’t helped him. He’d never helped him take care of her arm. Servant had to figure out how to keep it from rotting on his own, had to maintain the nails on his own, had to cultivate and care for it.

And it’s fine, of course, that Kamukura didn’t like it. Kamukura didn’t like anything. And Kamukura understood the nuance of despair. He understood why he  _ had _ to do it. Why he had to bring hims

There had been no hope in getting rid of it. Kamukura had never like her arm to begin with. It was not hope, that fueled him.

It was relief. 

==

He can get Kamukura to show him the stars, sometimes. 

Winter is a good time for this, or so he’s been told. Clear skies. Long nights. So despite the chill, he sits out on the deck with Kamukura and gazes up to the heavens. He does not take for granted how much he can see. It’s one of the few beauties that The Tragedy revealed to him, one of the few things he’s been able to admire throughout. There’s no light to pollute his gaze, no clouds to hide the sights. He’ll point out stars, and Kamukura will place a name to them.

Sometimes he already knows what their names. Because he’s read about them. He’ll attempt to name then off quietly, and  _ sometimes, _ maybe, get the names wrong on purpose, because it’s always more interesting hearing it from Kamukura’s mouth, and when they’re sitting out here like this he can admire the way the stars reflect in Kamukura’s eyes.

“That one is Draco, correct?”

“Cassiopeia,” Kamukura correctly, reaches over to grab his hand and push it in the right direction, “That one is Draco.”

“Oh,” He says, not even sounding the mildest bit disappointed, “And that one is Venus?”

“Saturn. You know Venus can’t be seen until dawn.”

“Ah. Must have slipped my mind,” He laughs, breathy, and holds awareness in how light it is. And because he does like getting praise, on occasion, “And that’s Orion, correct?”

“... Correct.” 

Servant decidedly does not preen at the confirmation, but also is not exactly modest when he smiles. Kamukura gazes over him, seems to consider it, but says nothing as Servant shifts to lay closer to him.

The wind does not howl tonight, and though there’s snow on the ground it does not touch him. When he lays against Kamukura like this, he imagines he might just be able to fall asleep despite the cold. It’s not the most uncomfortable he’s been, afterall. It’s actually pretty comfortable, compared to his history.

“Komaeda.” 

Servant blinks, laces their fingers proper. Kamukura must take that as a sign of his attention, because he does not wait for a verbal answer.

“I have been considering something.” Kamukura starts. Stalls. Continues to gaze up at the stars with a half lidded look to his eyes.

He waits this time, Servant notes.

“Okay,” Servant says, calmly, “I’m listening.”

Kamukura opens his mouth. Closes it. Closes his eyes, to think about  _ something _ . 

“If I’ve failed what I was create to be,” He starts, and nothing about his form breaks, “If I have not fulfilled my purpose-”

“You... have though?”

“I haven’t,” Kamukura interrupts him, “That is not what I am considering. It is something I had accepted a while ago. On paper, the project was a success. I was created as intended. And I take great pride in my history, colored as though it may be,” Kamukura does not pull his hand away, but he feels his fingers twitch, “However, the project was multipurpose. I was not to just exist. I was hope. I have failed that.”

“ _ You haven’t _ .” Servant sucks in a breath when he shoots up, “You  _ are _ hope.”

“That is still not what I am considering.” 

Servant doesn’t realize how heavy he’s breathing, already, until the cold stings his lungs, and he’s forced to choke out a sharp, a very  _ patient _ , “Okay.”

“I have failed my purpose. The one thing I was created to be,” Kamukura gazes to him. Then looks away again. He does not match his eyes, but he doesn’t need to. Because it burns into him like the first time they met, “Does that mean you could fail your purpose? If I have failed mine?”

“... What?”

“Does that mean you could fail your purpose? If I have failed mine?” He repeats it with the same tone. The same fluctuation. Word for word, looking Servant in the eye as he does. Servant’s not sure why he hesitates on his answer. It’s long enough of a pause, however, that Kamukura continues to prod, “Emotions are fluid. Belief is changing. Possibilities are as neverending as the stars above us, there are chances upon chances that one day you will no longer with to stay with me. Things you may find out, things even I cannot explain. You can fail what you were created to do. Our relationship is fragile and-”

“Kamukura  _ stop _ ,” Servants words slip out before he can stop them, but the moment he speaks he realizes that he does not want to stop them.

“You may-”

“No. Stop,” He’s firmer this time. Harsher. Perhaps more so then he intends to be. And he realizes, hes gazing down at Kamukura, above him. That Kamukura is staring wide eyed up at him. That he’s not smiling at Kamukura anymore. He doesn’t know what expression he has on his face right now, doesn’t care enough to figure it out, but he can see the way Kamukura is looking at him.

He’s quiet. They’re both quiet. 

“Is that your fault,” Servant asks, eyebrows furrowing, “Is it your fault they gave you a mission you were doomed to fail?”

“I should not have failed it, if I was truly as perfect as intended,” Kamukura tells him.

“You were crafted by human hands,” Servant answers, “They couldn’t have known. They couldn’t have known they were giving you the wrong purpose.”

“So you’re saying I am flawed?” Kamukura says, and it’s so blank it might as well be prerecorded.

“ _ Thats not what I’m saying _ ,” Servant finally sits up entirely, reaches up to grip at his own hair and pull. Kamukura seems to consider reaching up to stop him, goes so far as to reach out to grab his hand. Servant pulls back.

“You’re hope. You’re  _ my _ hope. I know  _ hope _ Kamukura-kun, I’ve lived through hope and I’ve lived through despair and I’ve lived through tragedy, and at the center of it all you were  _ there _ . For better or for worse, you were  _ there _ . 

“You’re Beautiful. You’re-” Servant stalls, “You’ve  _ always _ been my hope. You’re incredible. You know that, right?”

Kamukura is silent.

“I was created for you,” Servant says, “I had to have been. I was born to meet you. What other purpose would I have then to be with you?”

“I am not questioning that,” Kamukura whispers. It sounds so far away, “I believe in your purpose.”

“I’ve stayed with you this long,” Servant points out, breathy, “Why would I leave now? Why would I fail? What have I done to make you question my loyalty to you? My devotion?” 

“...” Kamukura’s head tilts away, so he can’t look at him, “You have not always followed me. That can change. Your loyalty has changed in the past.”

Servant opens his mouth to reply. He closes it. Mirrors Kamukura’s earlier motions to an exact. And the only thing that can come out, only thing that he can whisper is, “ _ Her _ ?”

Kamukura doesn’t answer him.

“You’re questioning my.. loyalty because of  _ her _ ?” He presses, and doesn’t miss how his tone falters, “Kamukura-kun, thats-”

“Reasonable,” Kamukura says, “It is reasonable for me to do so.”

Servant stares. And Wait. And Stares. The cold dries his eyes, he stares for so long.

And then.

“You took her arm from me.” Servant tells him, plainly, continues to stare as though waiting for his reaction. He’s not sure if he wants one. Not actually. 

“I did.”

“You took  _ her _ from me.”

Kamukura… stills. Servant takes this as a motion to continue, “You took her from me. You told me that it didn’t matter. That… That so long as I could fulfil my job. My purpose. That it didn’t matter. But then you still took her from me,” And he’s not sure why it’s so sore. He’s not sure why that matters, what point it’s making to their conversation prior. But he’s latched onto it with the intensity of a shark bite, feels blood and bile that is not there taste on his tongue. He grips so hard at his own skin that it’s burns under his touch.

“You would not have left her for me,” Kamukura tells him, and his voice is so plain compared to Servants, “I have accepted that much. You did not need her, but you wanted her. You would not have left her for me, were she to have lived.”

“It doesn’t matter what I wanted”

“You did not want me,” He says, and it’s sharp enough to have cut, “You are mine. You should have always been mine. If your purpose was to follow me, truly follow me, then you would not have attached her to yourself. You would not have worshiped in her name as long as you did. You should have been mine, even before I knew you were-” He cuts himself off.

“...” Servant opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, “Kamukura-kun,” He says, “Are you  _ jealous _ of a dead woman?”

“It is not jealousy I feel. I cannot feel jealousy,” His reply is robotic, and automatic, “I cannot feel love. However, I know…… this. I know what belongs to me. You belong to me. I did not inherent many things from her that I found solace in. There was not a lot I could truly be proud to claim ownership on,” Kamukura closes his eyes, “But you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. I should not be second to Enoshima.”

Servant has to wonder how true that is. If he truly cannot feel. It’s something he wondered before now, but weighs heavily on his shoulders as he looks Kamukura over. And he wonders, with a surprising amount of momentary clarity, if someone that was raised to believe they do not feel can recognize an emotion for what it is.

Kamukura’s tone hasn’t broken once throughout. But he refuses to look Servant in the eye. His figure is still, entirely still, and 

“I need to think,” He tells Kamukura, as he goes to stand. 

Kamukura stares at him, “You’re refusing the conversation?”

“No. I need to think,” He repeats, calmer now, “Please. I just need to think.”

“... Very well.”

And he leaves Kamukura sitting under a sea of stars. Just for a minute. Just so he can think.

//

Kamukura doesn’t often approach him for physical affection.

It’s always Servant. Servant who finds himself to be needy, Servant who approaches and begs.

Kamukura has been trying, recently. Is the thing.

The touch on his lower back is stiff, and the feeling of a hand through his hair feels like it’s been trained in there. But the touch is there. Because he knows Servant likes it.

The most comfortable touch, Servant’s noticed, is the ones he thinks not even Kamukura notices. When Kamukura rests his head on his shoulder, or the way they brush up to one another when they’re laying together, or how Kamukura will crumble onto him in a heap and even if Servant has to do the work to adjusting him it’s still the most natural touch he gives him.

Kamukura use to have him so well trained.

Rather,  _ Enoshima _ had him trained well, and Kamukura picked up the abandoned leash when she passed. He use to take orders so well. It didn’t matter what the order was. Didn’t even need to say the order, half the time. There had always been rules, unspoken restrictions on their relationship. 

He’s always been a dog. He’d always been a servant.

But now Kamukura is laying on his chest instead, and he doesn’t mind.

And once. Twice. Kamukura will ask him a question.

“How do you know that you would still serve me?” Kamukura asks him, and Servant catches the slightest tilt to his head, “Would our paths not just cross? There would be no end, had we not taken the same road.”

“I’ve told you before, haven’t I? I’ll always serve hope. You’ve always been hope. You’ll always be hope. So I’ll always follow you.”

“My hope is artificial. Created. I would not be hope.”

“You would though!” Servant argues, “You’ve always been hope. I just know that,” Servant tells him, whispers it, “Isn’t that enough, Kamukura-kun? Do I need more of a reason then that?”

...

(Looking back on it, he doesn’t think it was the right answer. Looking back on it, he’s not sure what Kamukura was looking for.

But it has fine enough then, to settle into a comfortable silence.)

  
  


//

The thing is, Kamukura’s concerns are perhaps not entirely unjustified.

Servant use to sit at her heel the same way he did Kamukura. He use to worship her and dote on her and follow her, because it’s what she wanted of him, and what she’d trained him to be. When she was alive, Kamukura was second to her. Not because he wanted the man to be, but because he had to be. Because hope was sick, and had always been sick.

He considers this as he makes them tea, takes a moment to breath.

If Kamukura had sided against her, would he have followed? He is not sure. He wants to believe he would. That he would have dropped his role as her servant immediately, if it meant following at Kamukura’s side. 

He  _ can’t _ , though. He can’t say for certainty that he would. Because Junko Enoshima had given him everything he’d asked for and more. She’d watched as he’d paced and preached his credence, had answered and considered it and thought about it with such conviction and sincerity that she near fooled him into believing she was just as passionate as he was. She’d listened and  _ engaged _ and  _ believed _ him. She’d confirmed everything he thought about himself, for better and for worse, had given him the very position he’d wanted to be in. 

She’d  _ approached _ him.

Not even Kamukura had done that.

The relationship he had with Enoshima had been easy. She’d made it easy. Not many things in his life had been easy, even now. She knew what to say and how to say it, and even if he could see the rot under the honey he still tasted it every time. 

He does not think he would have followed Kamukura away from her. And it’s not that he didn’t love Kamukura. He always has. He’s  _ always _ been certain of his feelings. But his love was hard. Hope was hard. And Despair was easy. 

….

But it also wasn’t  _ love _ . It was cheap, and artificial. Even from the start, he knew she was using them. He saw the looks she gave his classmates, the way she grinned as they fell into petty squabbles and coaxed them past their discomforts. Her love was glass. Pretty, when she held them up to the light. But shattered, when pressed with force.

He’d adored her. He hated himself for adoring her. He hated her, even more, for that. He hated that he’d ignored that for indulgence. But he loved her. Created and crafted, but love nonetheless.

He, sometimes, despite everything, still thinks he can look back and make himself believe she cared about him.

...

When he comes back out, Kamukura is sitting in the exact same spot he had been before. He’s stiff, a statue, propped up against the wall, watching him with a gaze even he cannot read. 

Servant isnt scared of that gaze. He never has been scared of his gaze. Instead, he focuses on the red in his cheeks, how cold his fingers are when they brush. He offers him the cup like an olive branch, and Kamukura doesn’t touch it. 

“Please?” He asks, and then when Kamukura ignores him, softer, gentler, “Please.”

Kamukura stares at him harder. Until he tries just one more time, and Kamukura takes the cup, and Servant can finally settle in next to him. Not with him. Just next to him. 

They stare at the sky.

“You’re right,” Servant tells him, softly, “She came first. She always had.”

“I’m aware,” Kamukura returns.

“I would have continued to follow her.”

“I’m aware.”

Servant sniffs, but he’s not crying. 

“... She didn't eat dinner with me you know.”

Kamukura doesn’t answer him. Does not prompt him to go on. He keeps staring, as though daring Servant to inch closer.

“She didn't... Eat dinner with me. Or watch the same movie for the hundredth time. And she always sat in  _ my _ lap, I never liked that- not that I mind when you do it, of course, but with her it was always different. And, she did bathe with me on occasion, but that was only to make sure I was using really cold water, and to pull my hair, and, and she just wanted to ruin-” 

“Komaeda,” Servant calms, instantly. Stops him in his tracks, which is maybe for the best. Because he can feel the way his face is getting red, and how heavy his breathing is getting. Servant reaches down to tentatively grab Kamukura’s hand. He waits for allowance, granted to him with a brush of the fingers, and pulls Kamukura’s hand to touch his cheek.

“Eoshima was intoxicating. But she's not  _ you _ ,” He hesitates for a long time, "She’s never been you Kamukura. I loved her  _ and _ I loathed her. She was nothing to me, but she was everything. My obsession with her was entirely artificial. Something she morphed and created with her own hands. She told me what I wanted to hear, and gave me love and attention and touch and feeling, and I never had that from someone. She made sure I knew what she thought. But. My love for you. It’s entirely unconditional. I have never once  _ hated _ you the way I hate her.”

Servant leans over to press a kiss to the side of Kamukra’s hair, careful to avoid the area he thinks the scar is.

He notices he has to tilt his head down a little, just somewhat, to do it. 

“I’ve always loved you,” He tells him, “From the start, you know. She knew that too, because I  _ told _ her. But my love for her does not change my love for you. They are not contrary. It would be wrong of me, to deny its existence. But they’re.. They’re incomparable. They’re different. You’re different, and you’ve always been different. There’s never going to be another person like Junko, and there will never be someone like you.”

“I understand,” Kamukura tells him, eventually.

“That's good,” Servant breaths, “That's great.”

He shifts closer to Kamukura and wraps the blanket around him as well, so he may have an easier time wrapping him up and stealing his warmth. It’s cold enough, he notes, to see their breaths, “I’ll never leave you, Kamukura-kun. I love you. You know that, right? I really do love you. I would never hurt you like that.”

“You’re mine,” Kamukura says again, quietly. His voice is an echo.

“I am,” Servant soothes, allows his one good hand to follow down the curtain of Kamukura’s hair. He feels, at last, Kamukura’s arms wrap around him in return. Feels the way Kamukura eases into place against him, admires how complete he feels with him there, “I understand.”


	15. holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> servant celebrates the holidays with kamukura.

Their house is decorated colors and lights, dug out of a boxes that weren’t technically theirs, in a storage that IS technically theirs.

"Old," Kamukura mumbles, "But usable, nonetheless.”

Servant’s one and only goal, for the holidays, is to make the house as pretty as he can manage. It does not matter that they will be the only one to see it. It does not matter that they will have to rush to take down the decorations come the twenty eighth to replace them with new years ones.

Kamukura humors him in his mission. He helps pin up the lights, and find odder objects that can be used to decorate. 

And by the end of it all, the house glows just a bit warmer.

//

Kamukura likes to wander.

This is a fact about him Servant knows. Understands. He leaves at the oddest of times, and always comes back to him. He knows to expect this.

But it’s cold out there. Tonight is _especially_ cold. It’s something he’s hyper aware of, two blankets wrapped around his shoulders, tucked away under the kotatsu, electric kettle on a near constant warm. Even with the space heater on.

“Coldest day of the year,” Kamukura had told him, as though considering it.

“Rotten luck, on today of all days,” He says, and reaches over to grab his hand. Kamukura continues to look out the window, despite this.

There’s a blizzard you see. A real nasty thing. Even Servant wasn’t stubborn enough o try and brave it, which is quite a shame. There was suppose to be a festival in town, today. They were suppose to go together. 

“You’re not even going to put on a jacket?” Servant couldn’t help but express his concern, despite knowing better than that.

“I will be fine,” Kamukura had assured, blankly. Servant wants to dig for more information. Wants to know what he could mean. But Kamukura never gives enough information, and Servant is unwilling to prod.

So Kamukura leaves in a blizzard. And Servant allows it.

//

Kamukura has made a christmas cake for him.

A traditional sort. White frosting, strawberry short cake. He’s not sure where or when Kamukura got the strawberry’s, considering they’re fresh. He appreciates it all the more for the effort.He went out of his way to make it pretty. They don’t have any decorations to go on top of it, but they do have dye for their icing. 

Flour in his hair, dusted across his cheek and shirt. If Servant did not already have the idea of Kamukura as a _more_ , he might be fooled into thinking it was amusing.

Maybe he still see’s it as somewhat amusing.

"There are some things even I cannot cook without getting dirtied," he seems bemused as Servant reaches up to brush off the line of flour dotting his cheek with his thumb. 

“No ones ever gotten me one before,” Servant tells him, like an admittance, “Not even my own mother!”

“Ah. I have never had one” Kamukura tells him, considers it, “Within my memory.”

And something clicks into place.

Servant eyes him, “Oh,” is what he says, “Well. We can share it. I know I didn’t make you one-”

“Do not make me one,”

Servant’s lips fall into a smile.

And the interaction is easy. Peaceful like that.

//

  
  


It’s around the one hour mark Servant starts to worry. The two hour mark he starts staring at the door. Two and a half hours, and he’s finding his own jacket to go searching.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Kamukura. He’s able to reason with himself, on that. It’s just that it’s a holiday. He hadn’t even eaten yet. That it’s particularly cold out. It shouldn’t be hard to find him, he reasons. Follow his footsteps in the snow, convince him to come back with him.

He just wants to spend the night with Kamukura. That’s all. Concern be damned, he just wants to see Kamukura. And as his servant, it’s his job to make sure he’s safe.

//

The town nearby has decorations up on the twenty-fifth.

Kamukura takes him late enough into the day that they can actually see the lights strung about, but not late enough into the night that the walk back will be _too_ cold. The snow crunches under their feet while they walk, and his nose is numb on his face, but he’s hardly a care in the world while in the sea of neon blue’s and red’s that the light offers him.

“It’s _romantic_!” Servant’s eyes go wide, as he looks about, holding Kamukura’s hand like a life line, “Don’t you think Kamukura-kun?”

“I did not think I would see sights like this in person,” Kamukura tells him, bemused.

They walk a little further down the path. Stop once to get food from a little stand set up to the side, and again to stop buy and get another scarf because it’s particularly cold tonight. He wraps it around himself, and however he did it must annoy Kamukura because he reaches over to correct whatever mistake he’s perceived. 

And it’s all normal. It _feels_ normal now. 

There’s.. this little stone bridge along their path. It’s been decorated with just as many lights as the rest of the path, but he stop’s there to admire the way that these ones reflect on the ice beneath them. 

Which means Kamukura also stops. 

They stand there, silent. And because Servant does not want to ruin it, he lowers his voice when he speaks, “Sometimes I think,” He starts, stops. Like he’s about to say something forbidden, “Sometimes I think it’s a good thing, that we were forced to pull away,” He tells Kamukura, “That we were forced to abandon them.”

Kamukura tilts his head, “You are unsure?”

“Well. They were all we had,” He points out, and squeezes Kamukura’s hand tighter, “We’ll never be able to truly connect with anyone else. Not like this.”

“Perhaps not.”

Servant looks down, “I think it’s good. Because it allowed the world to flourish. It allowed hope to grow. But sometimes, I wish…” He trails off. 

He does not finish that thought.

//

It doesn’t take him long to find Kamukura, is the thing.

The footprints are somewhat covered by the snow, but in the sort of way where the imprint is _just_ there enough to see.

But that doesn’t matter, because in the end. Kamukura hasn’t wandered far at all.

When he finds him, Kamukura is standing knee deep in the pond behind their home.

“What are you doing?” Servant asks, not exactly stunned, not exactly amused. He’s not entirely sure how to feel. Confused, concerned, but not surprised. Kamukura could do anything, and he’d accept it for what it is.

“You followed me. You do not generally do that these days,” Kamukura tells him, dazed.

“It was cold out tonight. I was.. worried,” He says, more firmly and the snow snaps like bullets against his cheek, “What are you doing?” He repeats the question.

Kamukura does not answer him immediately. He looks forward to him, _at_ him. Not through him, but at him.

The gaze burns him, somewhat.

“Go inside,” Kamukura orders him, instead.

“Not without you.”

His head tilts down. He’s been standing in there for quite a while, it seems. What of his hair isn’t in the water has clumped and frozen together, what of his hair is in the water has sunken to the bottom. A bit of snow has collected, a stark contrast to the dark brown strands he so dearly prides himself in.

“Kamukura-kun…” 

Kamukura blinks at him, “Do you think I am above death? Do you think something would save me, should I choose to stand here.” His shoulders fall, “I think I’m finally beginning to understand your luck. I do not know if I want to finish.”

Servant is quiet. Only the barest amount of moonlight breaks through the storm and clouds. Otherwise, it is dark, and it is cold.

“Kamukura-kun. Please come out of the water,” He requests, trying to keep his voice gentle. But it’s hard, when the dread in his stomach is beginning to quickly take over. It’s hard, when he’s staring Kamukura in the eye like this.

“Did you know that near death experiences can bring back repressed memories,” Kamukura tells him, and Servant almost doesn’t hear it with how quietly he says it, “It would be interesting to test that, more in depth. That’s all.”

He chokes on, “Kamukura. Come here.”

Kamukura looks down to the water around him. He closes his eyes.

Servant isn’t sure what he’s thinking about, in that moment. Knowing Kamukura it could be anything. It could be about their existence, their relationship. He could be wondering about dinner. Servant doesn’t know, because Servant never knows what Kamukura is thinking about. Kamukura rarely tells him what he’s thinking about. He doesn’t realize how frustrating it is, until he’s standing knee deep in snow, watching him with an anxiety fueled gaze.

Kamukura answers the question for him.

“Drowning is supposedly painful. However, I’ve found it to be quite peaceful. Perhaps it is because I am unable to feel panicked at the prospect of death? Statistically, the worst of drowning comes from the panic and fear of it. I am unable to feel fear. Perhaps that is the flaw in my logic? An unforeseen oversight.”

“Kamukura. Stop,” He says it softly, voice cracking. The feeling of dread is similar to that of despair. It’s there. He knows it is. But it’s easy to ignore until it overtakes him, easy to forget about. 

“Generally, a human can survive in freezing water for thirty minutes, before freezing to death. I have been in here for forty-five. Not entirely, I suppose. I have been through worse. I have been through various methods of torture, you know. They knew I would be a high profile target, when the project was over. I had to be prepared, you see. Most were easy to withstand. Others were not.”

“ _Stop_ ,” He says louder. Firmer. He feels his nails dig into the palm of his hand. He doesn’t think he’s shaking from the cold.

“I suppose in the end, it did prepare me for what was to come. Nothing she did would ever equate to the feeling of complete loss of agency. I did not know it at the time, of course. I still do not believe I entirely understand.”

He tastes blood on his tongue. He can’t breath, it’s so cold.

“ _Kamukura stop_ ! Stop. I don’t want to hear about it right _now_. We can talk about it- You can tell me about it. Just come back inside with me.” 

“Is that an order,” He counters, narrows his eyes.

“ _Izuru_ ,” He tries, desperately, “I am _requesting_. Please come back inside with me.”

Kamukura’s eyes snap open. 

There must be a pitiful sort of look on his face, because Kamukura is giving him the kind of gaze over he does when he’s piecing him apart and putting him back together. When he’s trying, very hard, to understand the emotion behind his intent. Servant waits for something, anything. A cue that Kamukura is going to come out on his own. A cue to come fetch him.

Slowly. Carefully. He steps closer to Servant. Servant takes this as confirmation, snaps forward to him. He wades carefully into the water, doesn’t even register the way that it seeps into his pants until he has Kamukura wrapped up in his blanket with him, cold and shivering. The edges of the blanket soak cold. But there’s still a bit of warmth there, just enough to share.

The water is cold enough to sting his skin. That he’s numb from the waste down, near immediately. It doesn’t just feel like wading through fire. It feels like walking through knives. 

Kamukura is normally warm. Kamukura is normally a furnace, compared to himself. It reminds Servant that he’s alive. That he’s breathing, that when he goes so still and stares at the wall for hours and gets that glassy eyed look on his face, that he’s still there with him.

He feels like a corpse, right now.

He’s only human, he thinks. 

Only human. 

Only human.

Kamukura Izuru is only human.

“... I did not mean for you to come in as well,” Kamukura relaxes into him despite this. Buckles into him, really. All dead weight, and Servant manages to hold him through force of will alone.

And then.

“Ah. You are warm.”

“Lets go inside,” Servant tells him, a final time.

And. Despite his words they don’t move.

//

Kamukura also cooks dinner for them, that night. Like he always does. 

Only it’s just a bit more intricate then normal. He cooks some kind of meat Servant hadn’t realized they’d had, they’d stopped by the library to rent out a movie that neither of them have seen, and there’s wine and candles, of all things. The wine is red. The candles are black.

“An early gift from Future Foundation,” Kamukura mentions, as Servant turns it around in his hand curiously.

It’s almost romantic. More romantic then the walk, if he was dared say it. 

(He makes sure to take a picture of it all, because they start eating. It humors Kamukura, if nothing else.)

“I know traditions by technicality,” Kamukura mentions, off hand, “However I would not know if I have experienced any.”

“Unless you count the tradition of going out and hunting down couples on Christmas. I know Tsumiki-san was particularly fond of that one. She always got particularly bitter, around this time of year.”

Kamukura does not find his joke as amusing as he does. 

“Is that something you’ve want?” Servant asks him, more sincerely, “I could show you some, come New Year?”

Kamukura thinks about it. He knows this, because he tilts his head down as he does so, “Perhaps. I do not know if there would be anything I would not expect, however.”

“Isn’t the point of tradition predictability?” Servant asks, “The same thing every year. There’s comfort in looking forward to that. It’s even a little exciting!” 

Kamukura pushes a bit of his food about his plate.

//

They curl up in a bath together, after Kamukura has warmed by the Kotatsu long enough to no longer risk frostbite. At his own recommendation, of course. Servant had been quick to try and usher him into the bath immediately. Servant would have ruined him, in his panic.

They hadn’t said much. Kamukura allows him the time to fuss and check over him (running fingers over his cheeks, brushing his hair back, tilting his head about. There’s ice in the strands, and his skin feels stiff, and Kamkura had been dead to the world throughout it all, a dazed look about him. Nothing behind his gaze. Truly nothing. Not the mask of apathy he normally hides behind, but the sort of emptiness that Servant has not seen since they first met. It scares him.)

What time he hadn’t spent fussing he’d spent intertwined with him. Clinging to him. Attempting not to sob. It’s easier than he expects it to be. He misses when he no longer cried. He hates the looks Kamukura gives him when he does.

He thinks back to laying under the Kotatsu with Kamukura, to considering their deaths. He’d never considered what he’d do if Kamukura died first. He never imagined it as a possibility.

Only human, he thinks. Only human. He could lose him. Only human.

Kamukura doesn’t even shiver.

  
  


//

Servant has always been a little bit of a lightweight. 

Even before the tragedy. He wasn’t _technically_ old enough to drink back then. But enough money and luck will get you just about anything, and he’d gotten a good grasp on his limits long before he should.

Kamukura, on the other hand, is not a light weight.

He knows this, because Kamukura’s impulse control has always been particularly horrid, and there were times in the tragedy where they were just lucky enough to find a full thing of vodka, or pills in a pharmacy, or something that that should have otherwise gotten destroyed in the tragedy. And Kamukura would without fail, take them, drink, at least once. Because he was curious. Because it changed his perception on the world, and that interested him.

Regardless, wine is somehow a lot for Servant, and Not a lot for Kamukura. Which means Servant is careful to pace himself, and Kamukura is not.

“I miss our class, sometimes,” Servant admits, when over half the bottle is gone. He’s spending time tracing little lines into the table, despite the fact that he still has half a cake left, and the fact that Kamukura is right there.

“Your class,” Kamukura corrects, and tilts his head. His eyes are bigger than normal. Thats the only way he can describe it. Wider, watching him with a unique sort of interest that he’s only ever seen in _Kamukura_.

“My class,” He corrects, “Is it pathetic? That I miss them so heartily? They were quite horrible to me sometimes.” 

“I do not think it is wrong, to wonder how they are.”

“But I _miss_ them Kamukura. I wish that they weren’t..” He hesitates, “They weren’t always like that, you know. Well- Saonji-san was always quite cruel. But it was different,” He sighs, long, “It was always different.”

“I am aware,” Kamukura says it softer, this time.

And despite the topic. Despite his thoughts. He finds that he does not actually feel sad right now. He feels nostalgic, for a time he did not belong in to begin with. For people that were never actually his.

Servant rests his head on the table, “I’m sorry,” He tells him, “Today is suppose to be about us. I figured that- Well. Ah. I don’t know, actually. I must have gotten lost in thought.”

Kamukura gazes down at him, “I don’t mind.”

In return, He smiles up at Kamukura.

“I love you,” Servant tells him, feeling stupid as he does, “I do. Thank you for staying with me.”

Kamukura nods, and lowers his head to match Servant on the table. He distinctly feels like he’s being _copied_ , especially when Kamukura raises his hand to match his position exactly, “I know.”

Servant feels himself smile wider, and notes to himself that Kamukura’s eyes are a particularly pretty shade tonight.

  
  


//

He’s combing out Kamukura’s hair in the warmth of the bathroom when he brings it up, quiet.

“Please,” Is how he starts it, because he still cannot bring himself to give Kamukura a direct order. Not while he’s thinking about it so directly, “Never do that again.”

“...” 

“I was scared, Kamukura-kun,” He stares down at the strands, gathered together like ink in the water, “You scared me.”

“Do you want to know the thing about fear, Komaeda?”

Servant’s eyes close. He doesn’t have a lot of good qualities, but he likes to think himself patient. It’s being tested, tonight, “I do,” He says, calm as can be.

“Fear is a human response. Ingrained in our very subconscious. Would you give me that much?”  
“I would,” He answers, hands unmoving.

“I was not scared to die. I did not intent to, but I was not scared to. I think that makes me inhumane,” Kamukura isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down to the water again, as though requesting it tell him something he does not already know.

Servant is still, “I’m not scared to die,” Servant says, “Do you think that makes me inhumane?”

“No,” “But your lack of nerves is taught. Mine is ingrained. Surely, at some point you feared death. Surely, at some point, you knew better than to test that boundary,” Kamukura stalls, “I did not. I was created without it. I don’t think I ever will know it, entirely. I don’t think I will know any emotion, so strongly. I think that is what makes me inhumane.”

There’s not tranquility, in the silence that follows. There is no understand in Servants touch. He tries for him. He tries to wrap his head around the logic, Kamukura has presented to him. He’s normally quite good at that. But he cannot. 

“Do you want to know what _I_ think?” Servant offers, but his tone is sharp, and glare is heavy,

“... I do.”

“I think it makes you.” He starts, flushed, needs to force the words out of his throat, “I think it makes _you_ -” 

“... It makes me,” Kamukura eggs, curious.

“I think it makes you _damaged_ ,” Servant grips at the comb hard enough that his knucks turn white, “I think it makes you imperfect.”

Kamukura gaze snaps up to him, “I am not damaged,” He tells him. It’s too calm to stop him from continuing. Because Servant has always been a fool.

“Everything you’ve described about the project has been _deranged_ . They didn’t need to do any of that to you. You didn’t need to go through that. It hurt you, didn’t it? What they _did_ to you damaged you and-”

“I am not damaged.”

“The more you tell me about the project,” Servant begins, fervently, “The more I realize how _insidious_ it was. They did not want to create _hope_ . They wanted- They want. Something. I do not know what they wanted. But it wasn’t _hope_. It was a corruption of hope. They created something beautiful, and then damaged it with their greed. They-”

“Do not call me damaged,” It's the first thing he’s said since coming back inside that does not sound empty. It’s sharp, and distant, but he hears the distaste in his voice, and Kamukura is glaring at him, of all things, and.

That shatters his will to continue his speech immediately.

And so, two of them are quiet.

A drop of water falls into the bath. 

He regrets his words immediately, “I’m sorry. Ah. I’m sorry Kamukura.”

“You’re.. Not incorrect. I have said it myself. The project failed it’s goal. In a way that would make me-”

“I’m still sorry,” He interrupts him, “That was rude. And I’m sorry,”

The water drips

“I understand,” Kamukura tells him.

And drips again.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing, Kamukura-kun. I don’t think you have to be perfect,” Servant drags the stump of his arm through the water, watching the way it disrupts the stillness in it, “We talked about it the other night, didn’t we?”

“I recall it distinctly.”

“I’ve been thinking about it. Considering it. Just because you’re not perfect, doesn’t mean you’re not hope. Hope isn’t perfect, is it?” He says, softly, “If hope was perfect, despair wouldn’t have been able to flourish. It would have been razed under the light of it’s own imperfection. But hope is flawed. It needs flourished, and grown, and guided. Despair needs a place, because hope needs to overcome it. And when it takes despair, it’s all the more beautiful for it. Hope is a wondrous, beautiful thing. It is what is good. But good can be flawed, especially when it’s guidance was so _poisoned_. You don’t have to be perfect.”

Kamukura closes his eyes at the feeling of his hand, leaning forward to rest his head on his shoulder. And despite the fact that he’s hiding his face, it’s just as much of a win as anything.

“You’re confused because your world view has been called into question,” Kamukura tells him, “And do not know how to express it. You do not want to change your feelings on me, even though I have contradicted what you believe.”

Then he goes quiet again. He does not move.

The water drips.

“No, Kamukura-kun. I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”

//

By the end of the night, they’re both just a little too drunk to _actually_ clean up. Servant had gathered the dishes and taken them to the sink, and Kamukura had made an attempt to pull himself up to do them, only to falter and declare, “Ah. I will not be doing that.”

Servant makes it up to him by shutting off the television for the both of them and shuffling over to join him on the other side of the table, “It would be wrong to clean up tonight anyway,” Servant tells him, “Bad luck to clean on holidays, Kamukura-kun.”

Kamukura thinks _far_ too hard about that statement. It’s particularly endearing, “You made that up.”

“Ah. Perhaps.”

So they lay there together, tipsy. Servant offers Kamukura a scattering of kisses across his face and neck and chest, the sloppy brush of his hand on the inside of his thigh, and Kamukura does a particularly good job at keeping the two of them steady as he does.

“We should drink water,” Kamukura informs him.

“It would be the smart thing to do, yes,” Servant agrees, his hands fumbling under Kamukura’s shirt instead. Neither of them feel particularly inclined to get up, and it’s not as though they’d do anything besides sleep tomorrow. 

//

  
  


Despite everything, Servant still manages to coax Kamukura under the Kotatsu with him that night.

He cannot bring himself to feel bad about his outburst, despite all of this. He feels bad about lashing out. He feels bad about possibly hurting him. But he does not feel bad about the intent of it.

He wonders if thats a bad thing.

Servant does not let go of Kamukura’s hand now that he has it. He laces their fingers in and out, runs his fingertips across the back of his hand. Kamukura allows him to move it around like a ragdoll’s, limp and easy. 

Servant is once again heating the electric kettle, and has broken out their good matcha tea. But every time he rises, he’s shaking too horridly to make it himself, and in the end Kamukura needs to make it for the two of them one handed.

He does not feel bad about this. It’s hard to.

Kamukura sits more in his lap then otherwise. Not entirely. There’s not enough room under the Kotatsu for that. But their legs tangle together, and Kamukura’s rest on his, and Kamukura has leaned into him, Servant has _his_ arms wrapped around Kamukura. Servant normally prefers the opposite, but right now finds that this is not a bad thing. He likes feeling like Kamukura is gathered up in his arms. He likes feeling like he has him, in his entirety. It’s comfortable. Knowing he has Kamukura, safe.

“You’re still upset,” Kamukura is watching the shake of his hands, when he mentions it.

“... I am.”

“I do not understand,” Kamukura looks down, “We have talked.”

“It’s not that simple,” Servant tells him, “Emotions aren’t that simple.”

“Explain it to me,” Kamukura requests.

“You told me you wouldn’t die before me,” Servant says, and it’s so blunt, he’s so tired, “You told me-” He takes a breath in. He doesn’t finish. Kamukura seems to fill in the blanks for him.

“Your luck will not kill me. I was not going to die,” Kamukura tells him, “My goal was not death. It was comprehension. It was retrieval. I had something stolen from me, and would prefer it back.”

“I don’t understand,” Servant says, “Kamukura. I..”

“I have experienced worse,” Kamukura tells him, “I do not understand why this has hurt you.”

“You did it to yourself,” Servant says, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“This is true,” Kamukura tells him, “But I would not have died. I would not have left you.”

Servant gazes over to Kamukura, and takes in the sight of him. His hair is still wet. Clumped together in strands. His hands are folded together. His gaze isn’t empty anymore. He’s realizing, suddenly, that it’s never really been empty. That he’s never seen it truly hollow before tonight.

He never wants to see it that empty again.

Everythings has gone back to normal. Everything is correct. And yet, he still feels the weight of inherent apprehension curse him.

Kamukura gazes up at him, “You have done worse to yourself.”

Servant can’t bring himself to smile, “I suppose that’s true.”

He reaches up to shift his cup of half finished tea forward on the table. Kamukura doesn’t move away from him to do so.

“Did it work, at least?” He finally asks, in a tone so dry and croaked even he mistakes it for a statement.

“..?”

“Did you remember anything?” He tries again, reaching up to touch the ends of his cup.

“... ” Kamukura looks down at his tea, “Nothing I did not already know.”

Servant holds him tighter.

//

  
  


“Thank you,” He tells him again, whispers it lovingly, admires the man beside him. The room is dark enough to be relaxing, but light enough that he can still make out Kamukura’s face.

Kamukura doesn’t reply to that. Instead he says, “I.. enjoy your touch.”

“You’re allowed to enjoy that,” He laughs, and then more sincerely, when he realizes how serious Kamukura is, “You are allowed to want that.”

“I do not enjoy many things,” Kamukura tells him, as thought to clarify, “I enjoy your touch. Even if I predict it, I enjoy it.”

“Oh,” Servant laughs, “I always figured it was an annoyance.”

“It was, once. A while ago. A very long time ago,” Kamukura tells him, “It is not anymore. It has not been for a very long time.”

And tomorrow, they would wake up hungover together. They would spend the day _mostly_ asleep. They would be awake long enough for Servant to maybe just vomit up his dinner from the night before, for Kamukura to gather up painkiller for the two of them. They would shower together, eat something small, and then fall right back asleep under the warmth of the Kotatsu.

The dishes would go dirty for the day, the lights would stay off throughout. It could snow especially hard, but it won’t matter. Because they’re warm, and they’re together.

… 

He realizes, as he trances along the edges of Kamukura’s face, that he does not feel like a servant anymore. He wonders why he does not feel guilty about this. 

(And figure that, for tonight, he can blame it on the alcohol.)

//

It’s not until after Kamukura finishes his tea, and the two of them have settled into bed, do they speak. One final time that night.

“You may continue to call me Izuru,” Kamukura mentions, to a room lit up only by the twinkling of colored lights. He’s looking up at the ceiling, watching the way they blink across the ceiling in different shapes. Because he likes to do that. And Servant knows that, “I do not think I mind that, either.”

“...” Servant closes his eyes. Tries to humor saying it more freely. He thinks that it’s almost funny, how easily he can imagine it coming to his lips, “You would want that?” He asks.

“I would.”

“...Maybe I could. Maybe I will,” Servant knows he will, really, “You can call me… _ah_ ,” He cannot, he realizes, get his own name out. It’s caught in his throat, like an ugly rat trapped in a cage.

“I understand,” Is how Kamukura saves him. 

“... Happy New Years, Izuru.”

“Happy New Years, Nagito.”

Servant turns over to take his turn in resting his head on Kamukura’s now very warm, still breathing chest, and closes his eyes.

 _Nagito_. It’s been a while since he’s heard that name.

Maybe he’ll start to like it, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is very important to me that future readers know that this chapter was, in fact, posted in july. Therefor, it is christmas in july. 
> 
> Also, if you're thinking to yourself that these two got posted very quickly together for their length. That is true! It was always intended for these two to get posted one after the other. Actually, I'm a day late on it o//o
> 
> Finally, the alternative summery to this chapter is “servants image of kamukura gets ruined slowly, and then all at once.”  
> But it didn't read so well, and I couldn't figure out how to incorporate the full quote.
> 
> Finally!!! Bro I got More FANART for this fic!!! It was done by [bearu-art](https://bearu-art.tumblr.com/) and you can find it[Here on the whole ass tumblr.com](https://mystxmomo.tumblr.com/post/623937773383155712/this-is-awful-but-ive-been-only-able-to-draw)  
> and I'm LOOSING my mind over it and have been since I saw it. They got me JUST before I updated to. Go look at it.
> 
> ==
> 
> The art this chapter was done by [Tetacat](https://t3ntacat.tumblr.com/) and the tumblr post for it can be found [Right about here.](https://t3ntacat.tumblr.com/post/624018682587348992/%E1%B4%85%E1%B4%8F-%CA%8F%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%9C-%E1%B4%9B%CA%9C%C9%AA%C9%B4%E1%B4%8B-%C9%AA-%E1%B4%80%E1%B4%8D-%E1%B4%80%CA%99%E1%B4%8F%E1%B4%A0%E1%B4%87-%E1%B4%85%E1%B4%87%E1%B4%80%E1%B4%9B%CA%9C-piece-for). I want to thank them again for making me the sketch and immediately putting up with me going "make it digital make it digital I want it IN the FIC" it was very cool of them


	16. cognizance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> komaeda wakes up from a very bad dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quick side note before we get into it.  
> SCTDM has a beta now! Igirisuhiro offered to beta everything, which I am incredibly grateful for. He's also going to go back and help fix the issues in earlier chapters as well, which I am double grateful for.  
> Now uhh back to the regularly scheduled program.

There’s a thin line of stitches that keeps him pulled together.

He imagines it like the stitches on his arm. Sometimes one of them would fray, and another break. And overtime, no matter the quality of the thread, he’d always have to replace them. Because the arm never took to his. And the stitches needed to be perfect or it would loosen, revealing the rot underneath. 

//

Kamukura spends three days recovering entirely. 

He’s not sure if Kamukura’s just unlucky enough to come down with something else, or if that’s just how hypothermia  _ is _ . He’s never been horribly knowledgeable on these sorts of things. He just knows that Kamukura wakes up with a fever the next day, vomits up his dinner, sleeps through to another. Komaeda (Komaeda, Komaeda, Komaeda… The name still tastes sour on his lips, but in his head he might just manage.) spends the time reading in hushed whispers, resting Kamukura’s head in his lap, never straying too far from him. He knows Kamukura prefers to sleep these things off, prefers to be alone. But Komaeda doesn’t leave, and Kamukura does not tell him to.

(Because he has him. Kamukura may be sick, may be tired, but he’s alive.)

The first time Kamukura actually gets up is because Komaeda decides he’s tired of eating leftovers and instant ramen (He’s spoiled, very spoiled) and attempts to make himself eggs. He remembers that he doesn’t actually know how to cook around the time the dish starts burning and Kamukura rushes in, grabbing the pan in passing, before quickly dumping the contents out the window.

“Ah. Apologies,” Komaeda says, going to dig out another egg. 

Kamukura stops him, “I will cook,” He tells him, with certainty.

Komaeda eyes him, “You’re-” He starts, only to be stopped by.

“I will cook. Sit down.”

And so. He goes to sit down. Kamukura’s face is still bright red with fever, eyes still a bit glossy, but Komaeda still goes to sit down. Weight on his shoulders and pit in his stomach. He still sits down.

//

One of those stitches fray.

//

He gets back up to watch Kamukura cook. Sits back down before he gets there. Stands up again, and lingers in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t have to cook when you’re sick,” Komaeda tells him, rests his head on the frame. The air is cold enough to chill him. He’s wearing a sweater, and he’s still chilly. It’s easy to ignore, somehow.

“I do not mind,” Kamukura tells him. 

They’re quiet. He watches the way the eggs sizzle in the pan, from a distance.

“You should teach me later,” He says, and finds that his voice doesn’t hold nearly the same nerve as it normally does when requesting things, “Not right now. Later though.”

“You do not have to,” Kamukura assures him, and then repeats, “I do not mind.”

Same inclination. Same tone. 

“I...  _ want  _ to learn,” Komaeda isn’t smiling, when he says this. Kamukura is looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Studies him. 

Komaeda looks to his hand instead, “I know you don’t mind cooking for me. It’s just- It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? That I can’t. I mean I- I’ve never had to. But I want to. And then maybe I can cook for you sometimes.”

There’s a furrow to Kamukura’s brow when he looks up. Only the slightest one. 

“You... do not have to. I do not think it is pathetic. You should not have to,” Kamukura says it with force, this time. But something behind it falters, and he tacts on, “But I can teach you. If you want that.”

“I do!” He assures, “I do. Thank you.”

Kamukura, for all it’s worth, nods, and Komaeda finally moves to join him at the stove.

(His hands are trembling, so he only lingers instead of touching.)

//

Another one breaks.

//

There’s a blackout curtain over the windows in their living room.

Thicker than some of the blankets they own. Kamukura likes working in the dark (less to focus on, less to be distracted by) and it makes the room easier to sleep in. If they do, theoretically, want light, it’s just a matter of peeling them to the side.

(Not that they do that often. There’s something about the privacy that comes with enclosure, that's always been all the more comforting to the both of them.)

They sit across from one another as he pokes at the egg’s Kamukura had taken the time to make for him. Their legs carefully do not brush, and eyes purposefully do not meet, and neither of them have said much at all since walking out of the kitchen.

It is dark, the TV is not on, and Kamukura’s head rests on the table. His breathing is slow, and if Komaeda's being entirely honest, he looks prepared to fall right back asleep. 

They do not talk. And, well- he’s used to long periods of silence with Kamukura. He’s used to eating whilst neither of them say or do anything, because silence with Kamukura is generally comfortable instead of overwhelming. Most people expect him to try and interact. But Kamukura only expects him to interact when he feels like it, and he does not expect much from Kamukura in turn.

But today. There’s just something about the moment, that makes him feel as though he should fill the silence. 

“You are... going to go back to sleep, right?” He asks, and the concern in his voice is honest.

“I do not think I will,” Kamukura says, “I am behind on work.”

“You can finish most of your work within the hour,” Komaeda points out, eyebrows furrowing. And then, a little softer, when realization hits, “It is... The holidays, still. You don’t have work to do.”

Kamukura is quiet, again. But he’s looking up expectantly at Komaeda now, narrowed eyed, and Komaeda takes the chance to reach across the table and presstouch his fingers to his forehead. Without permission, or approval. 

“You’re burning up still,” He mumbles, and it comes out far more contemplative then intended, “Ah... Please go back to sleep.”

Kamukura, instead, reaches over to turn on the TV. 

Komaeda jams his fork into his egg a little too hard. He thinks it does not go unnoticed, but Kamukura does not say anything on the matter.

//

Then another and another. And he tries to fix the stitches, but the despair of putting a needle through his skin time and time again becomes too overwhelming, and the smell of rot too strong. And so he’s forced to leave it to loosen, and be especially careful with it until he knows he can stomach it again.

//

“I should not still be sick,” Kamukura tells him, a part of the way through the movie he’s rather obviously not paying any actual attention to. One of the ones they’d gotten for Christmas, but never got around to watching. 

“What?”

“I should not still be sick,” He tells him, “My immune system was trained to fight off infection and virus alike. I should not be sick for days at a time. You know that too,” Kamukura looks up to him, and Komaeda can see the exhaustion in his gaze. He’s always looked like that, he notes. Bags under his eyes, a glossed over gaze. Komaeda knows personally, the inherent fatigue that comes with something as simple as being alive. It’s just jarring, to be hyper aware of it on Kamukura. 

Kamukura closes his eyes, “And yet I still have a fever, and everything feels awry.”

“Then you’re still sick,” Which seems fairly obvious to him.

“But I should not be.”

“I don’t think it matters if you shouldn’t be. If you don’t feel good, then it doesn’t matter what you were made to be. You just don’t feel good,” Komaeda reaches over to brush a strand of hair out of Kamukura’s face, repeats it again, despite there being nothing there to move, “Don’t push yourself because you believe you shouldn’t be sick.” 

“You are a hypocrite,” Kamukura mumbles into his arm. 

“Perhaps I just know what I’m talking about from a lifetime of existence in a crippled, rotting, no good body?”

“No. You are a hypocrite,” Kamukura repeats, “That is all there is to it.”

Komaeda watches on screen as the typical female love interest runs to meet the male lead. There’s a smile on her face and tears streaming down her cheek, and when she leaps into his arms the two of them laugh. The world around them is alive, but artificial. Not destroyed, but carefully crafted to feign perfection.

Something about it sits wrong with him. 

“If I come lay down with you, will you sleep?” He asks, just loud enough to be heard over the tape.

“... You would lay down with me regardless.”

But Kamukura nods, and Komaeda smiles, and he breathes out a soft, “Ah! Guilty.” 

The room is dark, and the TV plays on low, and he shifts to make sure that their legs tangle back together. And Komaeda, quietly, gets his way.

// 

Only that time never comes. And another stitch breaks, leaving the arm loose and rotting off his bone. 

//

When their movie finishes, he pulls Kamukura to the kitchen to make sure he gets something light to eat, (Even he can’t mess up toast, concerned as though he may be that it’s the only thing Kamukura is eating) brushes his hair out for him, and gathers the pillows and blankets they’d placed around the Kotatsu instead of on the bed. He grabs a book when he passes by it (because he suspects he won’t be sleeping) and takes the time to clean their mess off the table. And by the time he gets back, Kamukura is already laying down. The room is, as predicted, chilly. But Kamukura has moved the space heater a few inches closer to the bed, and he realizes Kamukura is laying closer to the wall instead. 

Which is different. 

(Which he’s unsure about.)

“Lock the door,” Kamukura tells him, and he does.

  
  


//

And then that thin line keeping him pulled together snaps apart. And the arm is cut off all together. 

//

Komaeda spends more of the evening staring through the dim room than he does reading. He watches the rise and fall of Kamukura’s shoulders. Runs the pages between his fingers time and time again, messes with the dog ears in the corner. 

(This book is not his own, but the previous owner had loved and used and abused it, and he can trace the outlines of folds and see the strings of the binding.)

Kamukura’s long since fallen asleep. He knows this, because he watched it happen with the same, easy patience he handles everything with.

“Do you want to know a secret, Izuru?” He whispers, so soft he might as well be mouthing it. It doesn’t matter, really, because Kamukura does not stir. Kamukura isn’t going to stir. Kamukura has spent the last few days in a sleep so deep that he wouldn’t have awoken to a plate breaking, let alone to the sound of his...  _ Servant’s? Lover's?  _ Chaotic, incomprehensible mumbling.

Komaeda continues.

“Sometimes I wish she was still here to guide me, too,” He sinks down to lay next to him, gaze sticking to the darkness instead of Kamukura, “I know that's bad. That nothing can replace your word. But sometimes, I miss...” He’s not sure what he misses, about her. He likes to think that he doesn’t have rose tinted glasses anymore. That he can see her evil, corrupt motives for what they were. 

Kamukura still does not stir.

“I miss having someone else,” He breaths, “I think. Is that bad? I have you. I have hope. I’m  _ lucky  _ to have what I do. My luck has never been kind, but it’s always been worth it. My luck led me to you. If that’s the one thing it had ever done, then I should be grateful for it.”

Kamukura is still.

“I can’t help but wonder if- if,” He clenches at the covers, “If this is all hope is. Not you- never you, never that. Your hope shines wonderfully! Beautifully, in fact! But this, everything that’s come from  _ this _ . Is this all hope has given-” He cuts himself off, “But you have given me so much, and it’s improper of me to imply otherwise. But the hope should be. Grander. More. After all this time. Hope's not fair, but it’s… Earned. Don’t you think we’ve earned it?”

Kamukura is not going to answer him. 

“I’m scared, Izuru.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he’s already curled into himself, forcing his breathing to still. 

Just scared, he thinks.

“That's all. Thank you for listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter we use someone getting sick as a plot point I promise please believe me wait why are you leaving haha you're so sexy come ba
> 
> Also final, more serious note.  
> Updates might come a bit less frequently for the next month or so, as I'm moving to a different apartment soon-ish over later. Once I'm settled in I'm hoping to update relatively frequently again.   
> Thank you for reading.


	17. Enlightenment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the silent pot boils over

The snow is beginning to melt. 

Wildflowers peak through in patches, destroying the once beautiful landscape of white and grey that he’d so lovingly admired. The world changes to something far muddier, and far murkier. But flowers bloom, the world warms, and Komaeda no longer feels the constraint of being trapped in his own home. He paces the paths he’d so carefully memorized last year, eyes the patches that flowers were bound to bloom in.

“That spot would be good for strawberries, perhaps?” He mentions, turns on his heel, “And this spot would do well for morning glory.”

Kamukura eyes the patches from his spot on the porch, as he always does, and calmly gazes over the plot of land.

“Ah.. Do you have any thoughts?” Komaeda asks. Feels more like he’s pressing something he shouldn’t. But getting information out of Kamukura feels like that, sometimes, and it’s something he’s long since attempted to accept.

He’s not sure why what he feels is uncertainty, then. 

“The strawberries will rot there,” Kamukura eventually determines, “Too much shade. Plant them elsewhere.”

“Oh!” He says, and smiles, “Perhaps they’d go better by the shed, then?”

Kamukura doesn’t reply. Komaeda takes that as a yes.

(When Komaeda turns around, he realizes his hand is shaking. He ignores it.)

//

Komaeda turns the water to the shower as hot as it can go and runs his fingers through it. He scrubs at his skin until it turns red and scratches shampoo into his hair until his scalp burns and stares at the way water spins down the drain. He sits in the tub and curls up, steadying his breathing. He stays like this until the hot water doesn’t make him feel anymore lightheaded than normal, and he can see clearly past the spots in his vision. 

Komaeda showers for the first time, alone willingly, to get rid of the feeling of disgust and grime that’s built over the years. 

It only kind of works. 

//

Sometimes, while Komaeda’s waiting for the water to boil, he’ll sit and stare at the way the bubbles simmer and form at the base of the pot. He drags a stool over so he doesn’t have to sit on the counter, pulls his legs up to rest his chin on his knees, and watch at the shapes the steam makes as it rises off the pot.

Kamukura will, often, supervise him. While his presence is normally a comfort, and guidance is normally appreciated, he finds the adjustments to the smallest things to be somewhat grating. He isn’t sure why. Cooking has never been his strong suit, and he’s sure he needs all the advice he can manage. But sometimes Kamukura will reach out to brush the back of his hand and guide him, and he feels himself tense. Or Kamukura will move over to correct when he’s about to put in, and he’ll yank it back to fix it himself. Or sometimes he’ll simply get up and leave Kamukura to finish cooking without him. Wordlessly, when tension boils over beyond his comprehension, he simply leaves. And Kamukura doesn’t stop him.

And he doesn’t know why he does it. And that scares him.

//

Komaeda walks into their bedroom to see Kamukura standing in front of their full length mirror, cutting off chunks of his hair at the hip. He's about half done by now. Has it fanned out about his fingers, cutting in careful, calculated snips.

"Izuru?" He stalls in his step.

"..." Kamukura shifts. Not startled by his presence, surely, but attention turned enough to stop him in his tracks. He glances down to the piles of hair that have gathered around him, "Ah," he says, calmly, "I thought you were out."

This is an objectively false fact. Komaeda does not go out of the house, beyond the small preparations he’s been doing for his garden. What times he does leave, he’s very particular to tell Kamukura. Because maybe Kamukura will tell him to stay. Maybe Kamukura would want him to stay.

And so, the only question he has is, "... Why?"

"I thought that…” Kamukura does not seem to know where to go with that statement. He fingers the strands in his hand and meets his gaze in a way that’s somehow both too distant and too on guard.

“It’s okay,” Komaeda says, quickly, “How short did you want to go?”

Kamukura is quiet. 

“This is fine,” Kamukura tells him, “Where it is at. I believe.”

//

Sometimes Komaeda will stand outside for hours on end.

Call it gratitude for the new life that the world has given him. Call it compilation of his own thoughts. But sometimes Kamukura leaves the house, and he can’t stand locking himself away until he gets back, so he paces on the porch, or attempts to work the soil himself, or he sits in the fields of silvergrass and lets the bugs bite him and wind chill him. 

Or. He does all three. In that order.

Kamukura will come back home to Komaeda collapsed in a heap on the bed, knows he won’t be getting up for another good day or so. He’ll sit at the edge of the bed, wait until Komaeda rolls over to face him.

“You tilled the garden,” Kamukura notes, with folded hands.

“I did,” Komaeda replies, calmly. 

“...” Kamukura doesn’t move, “I would have helped, had you asked,” He mentions.

Komaeda isn’t sure why it’s anger that flares up. He calms it, eases back down. Blames his exhaustion, “You weren’t here. I wanted to get it done,” Slips out. Kamukura doesn’t reply. Komaeda continues, “I didn’t want to bore you.”

Kamukura pauses. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Everything bores me,” Is the only thing Kamukura eventually comes up with.

“I know, Izuru.”

//

Komaeda cleans up the hair for him, because Kamukura seems enthralled in staring at the new ends. He’s yet to sit down, so it’s really more… working around him. Cleaning around him. Letting his fingers brush against the edge of his feet, and gazing up at him. 

It feels odd.

“It looks good on you,” he tells him. Like a reassurance. Runs his fingers through it as he passes, “Any style suits Izuru, of course. But it looks good like this.”

“...” Kamukura does not thank him. He stares down at the hair he’s cut off, “I think I have made a miscalculation,” He admits, softly. The scissors hang awkwardly in his hand. As though they’re about to slip through the edges at any moment. 

“Oh?” Is his uncertain reply, careful like.

“I considered going shorter,” Kamukura mentions, pauses to consider how to frame his wording, “I do not... think it should be this short. But I may have kept cutting it, had you not walked in.” 

Komaeda looks down at the piles of hair he’s yet to clean. There’s longer strands, done in chunks. However, there’s smaller strands. The sort that stick to his hand when he attempts to scoop them up. That weren’t done in the same easy go as the rest of it. He imagines Kamukura starting. Getting that look in his eye that comes with his work. Just not stopping, because something in his mind has yet to tell him to.

Komaeda hesitantly touches his hands to Kamukura’s waist. He can’t help but notice how much colder Kamukura feels, after having been in the shower.

“It really does look good on you,” He tells him, “It’s just hair. It will grow back.”

“It will.”

//

Other times, he stands at the edge of the pond and allows the water to lap at his feet. He likes standing there to look at the life around it. Sprouts of flowers bloom along the edges, the tree branches that dip into the water are beginning to develop leaves. There’s even a nest of frog eggs, tucked away in the furthest corner to the right.

“I wonder if we should get koi,” he whispers to himself, “I wonder if we can find some, these days.”

(Sometimes, it’s not the pond. Sometimes it’s the stream around the pond. He’ll stand in the middle of it, or sit on the edge, wrinkle his nose at the way wet sand sticks to his skin, or how odd algae feels under his feet.)

The water is much colder than the ground. Still sort of freezing to the touch. And he’s not Kamukura. He can’t stand there for long periods of time, nor does he find any amount of comfort in the idea of letting the water take his breath away. That's a privilege only Kamukura will have, that he knows not to give away.

And yet, there is sort of a clarity, that comes with the chill. 

//

He’s starting to get these nights.

The sort of nights where the feeling of her nails crawl up his arm, and he can practically feel her fingers curling into his hair to yank it back. It’s sort of like- He’s always had these episodes. Fits of despair that he finds himself unable to escape, or avoid.

But they don’t take him, like they used to. They were easy to lapse back into, in times of distress. Faux euphoria that blanketed him from the distress he knew he was feeling. And then when it was over, it was little more than a bad dream. He’d wake up, breathing heavy, tired. But otherwise level headed. And if he did something, said something he wasn’t supposed to. Well, despair was just tricky like that. 

But it’s not like that anymore. 

It’s hyperawareness of a building sense of dread. It’s every sound feeling like knives digging into his ears, or every touch feeling like a new burn on his skin. It’s hiding his shaking limbs in his pockets, or locking the bathroom door behind him so he can sit under hot water for an hour. It’s a blind panic that comes when the settling of their house sounds a little too much like heels clicking (And it doesn’t sound that similar, when he focuses on it. Really, it’s sort of ridiculous, really unreasonable.)

The despair is different. It’s overwhelming. Scattered thoughts that all spin around the same, singular thing. 

And if Kamukura notices, he doesn’t do anything. And Komaeda is unsure of how to tell him.

So he doesn’t.

And so when they cook together, Komaeda focuses all his energy in stirring the pot in stiff, sharp motions. He lets his nails dig into the wood of the spoon and attempts to block out the sound of Kamukura’s corrections. He puts up with the first touch, then the second, and the third, and the feeling of nails tracing down his spine worsens with each new motion. 

And then Kamukura’s fingers brush the back of his hand. And he-

“Don’t,” He snaps his hand back, drops the spoon in the process.

Kamukura’s eyes narrow at him, “You have been stirring for three minutes now,” He tells him, “It is just water. It does not need stirring.”

Komaeda stares down at the pot. He stares at the bubbles that assault the water's surface. He feels that dread crawl up his spine, weighing heavier on his shoulders with each passing moment. And he feels… cornered, between Kamukura and the stove.

“Sit,” Kamukura tells him, in the tone of an order. There is no sympathy behind it. Komaeda knows what he wants, of course. And normally, it would be so easy to fall into this routine. It would be easy, to shut his mouth and obey and not have to worry about this anymore. And normally, that would be the most comfortable option. 

But the idea haunts him more than it comforts him. He doesn’t want to sit, nor kneel, on the kitchen floor tonight. He does not want the feeling of Kamukura’s hands in his hair, nor to service him. He doesn’t want praise and he does not want punishment when normally he does, but everything feels wrong tonight and he. He doesn’t want a master, he doesn’t want a lover.

“No-”

He wants to be left alone. 

“Nagito.”

The water in the pot begins to boil over. His hand lashes out to force the pot off the burner.

(Some of the water spills onto his hand. It burns, but it’s easy to ignore.)

“I’m not playing coy,” He says, and when he sucks in a breath it comes out shaky, “I’m not- I don’t want to be touched right now. Kamukura-sama- Izuru, I-” He gulps in another breath, “Please.”

Kamukura looks at him. 

“... Very well.”

He’s a little unsure as to why it hurts.

(He does go to sit down. Away from him. So he can sit alone in the dark. Kamukura finishes dinner, and they carefully do not talk about it as they eat. Komaeda curls up as close to the wall as he can when he goes to sleep that night. Kamukura does not touch him.)

And the next day, everything goes back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you'll notice that +5 chapters got added to this fic.  
> That's because, while reworking it, I realized that the way it was paced made the ending feel a little rushed. The original plan was to have it last 4 seasons max, but I prefer to have things feel paced properly instead of sticking to og plans
> 
> So yeah. We get a few more chapters to this monstrosity. Thanks for sticking with me here.


	18. Spring Cleaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Komaeda does some spring cleaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> Hey so it's been a while since I updated this fic.  
> Which sucks, because I'm really excited to be at the part we are at. This was due to a mix of things, all pretty irrelevant to the times. All you really need to know is that I recently went through a massive creative rut in literally every medium. I blame it on stress and The Pandemic.
> 
> I'm hoping with this I just dragged myself up out of it kicking and screaming, but we shall see. 
> 
> Thanks again to Igirisuhito for putting up with me crawling into their dms half asleep and being like "edit this" with the most impatient vibe check in the world. They're one of the real ones, and here's the links to their profiles and content.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igirisuhito/pseuds/Igirisuhito  
> https://igirisuhito.tumblr.com/  
> 
> 
> As a final note, this chapter places a heavy focus on the looting of junkos corpse. Do with that information what you will.

It’s nice out, the day Junko Enoshima dies. 

The sort of sunny that rips through the polluted skies and warms the world with a false sense of comfort and security. As if trying to lure people to celebration. Trick them to once again have faith in their own agency, only for it to be crushed and destroyed under the very thing they’d thought they’d defeated.

It’s an ugly, disgusting kind of day.

//

Komaeda likes to take his time while doing the laundry. 

It’s one of those mindless chores. The type where he doesn’t pay attention to what he’s doing. Sorts by color, then by fabric. Checks for worn out clothing or lost items, and then double checks just to be sure. 

(He frequently forgets to take things out of his pockets. Loose change, forgotten notes, original purpose entirely unknown. He dumps them into a pile on top of the washing machine, next to the other items who have long since lost relevance, and adds it to the list of things he’s forgotten about in his life.)

And then he sits. Watches the washing machine from his spot on their floor across from it, and listens to the way the loose change dances against the machine it rests on.

(Sometimes he brings a book. Most of the time he brings nothing, and dozes in the light of the small laundry room window. But whatever he does, he does not leave, because he knows that if he leaves, he will forget he was here to begin with)

// 

Kuzuryuu is the one that calls them together.

He generally is. Nevermind has her own business to attend to. The Imposter prefers to work on their own terms. But Kuzuryuu knows better than to separate their forces entirely. When to force them under an olive branch, even against the laws of despair they’ve so carefully crafted for themselves.

It is foolish. But he respects it.

Everyone does.

(Some of them have stayed together, of course. Pekoyama and Kuzuryu haven’t been seen apart since leaving Hope's Peak, Souda desperately crawling back to them when Sonia rejects his worship. Mahiru and Saionji work best in a pair, Owari and Nidai encourage each other's despair.

It was a matter of efficiency. Only efficiency. And it was most efficient for Servant to do as he does best, and serve )

He notices Kamukura come in before anyone else does. Watches the way he stalks the walls and finds his place in the shadows, scans the group at the frenzied, chaotic table. Kamukura’s gaze meets his form but not his eyes. But otherwise, he is unnoticed, and ignored.

Of course, he thinks. Kamukura has no need to give him attention. Kamukura has no need to give any of them attention. He is above them, had stayed around and played into Junko's hands out of boredom.

Nothing more, nothing less.

//

For all intent and purposes, it is a nice morning. 

Sunny, but with a slight breeze. He still needs to throw on a jacket, wear a sweater beneath, to get comfortable. But it is otherwise gentle weather. Kind weather. 

He takes the chance to hang their blankets and curtains over the edge of the porch and bat the dust off the ends of it. Lets them sit for a few hours, to really freshen up after a season’s worth of sweat and dust.

He sweeps the deck and brush up the pathway leading up to the house. It’s not as though they have visitors, beyond each other. But it’s a nice thought. To take care of the place they’re staying. To make sure everything is presentable, just in case someone does come around. 

It’s a dirty, messy job, getting down to pull the weeds from between the stones. But he’s never really cared about making a mess of himself, and the end result is worth the pain.

When he’s finished and finds that the blankets still need time to dry, he instead walks the gardens lining the pathway and checks for weeds, and then goes through and waters the sprouts one by one.

“Do you know the life you’re going to be born into?” He whispers to them, softly, bitterly, digs his fingers into the tin of his watering can and hopes the venom that drips from his voice inspires their growth, “Do you think it’s hopeful, to live a life of survival?”

And when he goes to clean the windows, he pretends he never said anything. His secrets are between him and the sunflower buds.

//

“So. She’s dead.”

It’s a statement that brings silence to the room. They know this of course. He’s daring enough to assume that each and every one of them had watched it. 

Tsumiki breaks the silence with her sobs.

“ _ None _ of you know what it feels like!” She sobs, shakidly, grips and pulls at her hair in a show of anger and sorrow, “The pain I’m going through!”

“Oh _ shut up, _ ” Saionji hisses, reaching over to grab a handful of hair and help pull, “This isn’t about  _ you _ .”

Tsumiki sobs louder, 

“Both of you stop,” Nevermind orders, in a tone colder than ice, “In my country, such interruptions would be punished by exile.”

Saionji sticks her tongue out from across the table. Tsumiki’s sobs quiet to tremors.

“... She went out exactly like she wanted to, no one can fault her for that,” Mahiru whispers, touches the edge of her camera. 

“Is that the only reason you have called us?” Nevermind asks, with a tone so well mannered it may as well be insulting, “That is something we all know, is it not? I see no reason to bring it up.”

“No reason to-” Kuzuryuu snaps up, “Are you fucking serious right now?? It changes everything!”

Servant doesn't like to speak in these meetings.

His opinion is unneeded. Pointless. The first few times he'd tried, he'd been spoken over and ignored. Enoshima had offered him an unsympathetic pat on the back, and he'd been hushed back down to his knees so he could ignore the noise. He's long since decided to stop trying. Doesn't have anyone to kneel by, so stands near the door and watches the room from seclusion.

(He does, however, notice Pekoyama’s gaze flicker across himself. Suspicious, and harsh. She's always seemed suspect of him.)

//

It’s around midday when Kamukura wakes up. He sips at what Komaeda knows is lukewarm black coffee with a sluggish sort of exhaustion to him, pulls open his laptop and gets to work on his latest assignment immediately. 

He’s been asleep for a good sixteen hours, but still has bags under his eyes.

He works quietly, around him. Doesn’t want to disturb him as he wakes up, let alone annoy him. 

(Yet for some reason, he’s hyperaware of every sound Kamukura makes. The click of the glass on the table, the tapping of his keys and scratching of his pencil. Kamukura is unquestioningly quiet,  _ too _ quiet, and each sound he makes creeps down Komaeda’s neck. Hard to ignore.)

“Izuru,” He starts, stops, grips at the cloth he’s using to scrub the grime off their pretty polished floors, “Can you..” 

Kamukura gazes up at him, and he takes a moment to consider what he’s asking. Stop working? Help him? Turn something on the TV so he doesn’t have to work with only the unwelcomed ambience of his thoughts and Kamukura’s sounds? All are rather unreasonable requests. Especially when Kamukura has enough to do on his own. When Kamukura prefers to work in silence.

It’s not as though he’s being loud. It’s not as though he’s in the way. In fact, Kamukura is generally anything but.

(But the tapping of the keys still digs down his back like nails, and shift of the cup causes frustration to curl and coil in his stomach.

It’s kind of a pathetic, petty sort of anger, when he thinks about it.)

“Nevermind,” He says, and stares at the cracks developing in his knuckles, “It’s unimportant.”

Kamukura stalls to take another sip of coffee, and Komaeda isn’t unaware of the fact that he’s  _ looking _ at him.

//

“Kuzuryuu is correct.”

Kamukura doesn't look at people when he talks.

At all. He stares blankly ahead of himself, and whoever or whatever is in front him gets ignored in an act of elegant scorn. 

(Only. He isn’t  _ ignoring _ . Not really. He’d witnessed Enoshima bounce around in front of him in some desperate and unyielding cry for attention more times than he could count. Had seen Kamukura dodge bullets and knives from despair and the future foundation alike. It’s more like. He’s seeing everything at once. Has no reason to observe what he already knows.

It’s fascinating to watch. Then again, Kamukura is always fascinating to watch.)

The only reason he takes note of it is because quite a few people have not. In fact, most people do not even take note of his arrival. He notices the way Souda jumps, drops the wrench in his hand immediately on his foot. How Mioda fumbles the tune she was holding.

They may not have noticed him before, but they certainly do now. Servant had only ever seen it in Enoshima herself. Only, it’s not admiration that draws their attention to him. They had all loved her. She’d listened to their problems, guided them in a time of uncertainty and distress. She was something precious to them, and so they’d offered her their respects. 

(Yet, she’d turned them against one another. Had whispered in their ears, and pointed fingers where they didn’t belong. Mahiru and Kuzuryuu still will not speak to one another. He and Tsumiki have not seen eye to eye since highschool.)

Kamukura is different. They fear him. It’s the uncertainty that comes with mystery. Kamukura is a closed book propped up on a pedestal, a weapon she’d paraded around time and time again. They don’t know what to expect from him, nor what to do with him. 

Just that he has the power, the ability, to ruin them.

“Explain,” Nevermind requests, airily.

Kamukura doesn't answer. The others are smart enough to at least pretend to wait for his reply. He isn't unaware of the awkwardness that settles with the silence. It is something he has never minded, personally speaking. But Kuzuryuu does. His hands ball into fist, and face slowly begins to rise a truly embarrassing shade of red. Eyes squeeze shut and brows knit together right. 

"Fucking of course," Kuzuryuu kicks his legs up onto the table, "Jackass likes to hear himself speak until its something important. God forbid he actually give us something useful to work with."

Kamukura narrows his eyes. 

“It is not my place to sway your tides,” He says, with an air of ease that does not match his tone, “I was simply confirming the conclusion you would have come to on your own. Her death changes things. Without her, you will be lost, confused, and without guidance. Unless you play your cards well, I do not see her organization lasting more than two years.”

And then he falls back into obscurity. Hides himself in the ends of the room, away from even Servant's careful gaze.

(Komaeda knows he doesn't leave, of course. He likes to have information. Like to keep track of their movements.

Likes to know his enemy.)

//

The house is beginning to smell like an overwhelming amount of bleach, by the time he’s done with the bathroom.

His plan of attack was simple. He scrubs the floors and walls until the water in his bucket is a nasty shade of grey, soaks the bathtub in baking soda and cleaner until the soap scum and stains have dissolved away. He scrubs, and when his hand starts to hurt from the cleaner he only scrubs harder. He sorts through the cabinet in a desperate attempt at organization, sorts again when it just isn’t good enough, makes sure to place his pills in plain sight and empties the trash.

(He also tries to tempt himself to dump them in the trash. Then in the toilet, because if he dumps them there he can’t regret it and fetch them back. Then feels guilty at the impulse, and slides them out of his reach. Then feels guilter, distressed that he’d ruin what’s suppose to be a gift, and places them where they belong. Ignores the anger that coils in his gut, and the itch that won’t go away to ruin them.

Kamukura, he knows, would notice. And he’s never wanted to disappoint Kamukura. Doesn’t want to have that conversation with him.

It’s easier to leave it alone. Not to change anything.)

  
  


//

It’s Saionji’s idea to fetch her corpse from Hope's Peak. Tsumiki’s idea to scavenge the body for parts.

“If we couldn’t have a child in life,” She says, breaths heavy, “Maybe we can have one in her death. If she’s apart of me. Maybe.”

Her breathing is heavy when she says it. Cheeks flushed and tone eager.

It disgusts him.

Kuzuryu is the first one to go through surgery. 

No anesthesia. He bites down on a strap of leather and lets Tsumiki dig out his eye, holds in his screams and sobs as he’s robbed of it. Tsumiki comes out of the surgery with blood up her arms, but Kuzuryuu comes out of it with an eye thats new and a gaze that’s worsened. 

“Perhaps one day you might be able to see out of it.” Tsumiki says, dreamily, “See the world through her eyes. What a wonderful thought..”

Kuzuryu doesn’t say anything to her. He glares, holds a hand to his eye and does well not to rub.

Tsumiki tries to perform her own surgery. 

Cuts into her own skin and rips at her womb. It’s a sloppy, hack job that she cannot finish by her own shaking, drugged hands. Servant watches as Kamukura carefully finish the task she’d been so determined to complete on her own, working like a heartless machine as she screams and sobs and curses his name under his fingers. It is not with care, that he fixes her error. It is an action of duty, over sentimentality. 

Servant knows, afterall, that Kamukura Izuru does not care whether they live or die. He does not even care about the deals he has with a ghost.

If he is keeping Tsumiki alive, it is because he wants something out of her down the line.

(Or at least, that's what Enoshima would tell him. He wonders how true it is.)

//

They have an old mirror on their dresser.

The kind of old where the backing has begun to wear through, leaving black dots scattered across it. It’s elegant. Hand carved framing still holding up despite the damage, wood without splinter despite the lack of polish.

Komeda hates it. 

It towers over their bed from across the room, surveys their every move and motion. He feels like he’s being watched, sometimes. Feels overwhelmed, and thoroughly seen through.

He still takes the time to wipe it down for them. Make’s sure there’s not even a streak on its surface. He cleans it last, naturally. Makes the bed, puts their clothing away, hangs the curtains where they belong first. He wipes down the desk before he wipes off the dresser, sorts through the bookshelf before he focuses on the mirror.

Turns to face himself in the mirror, and ignores the way his reflection looms into him as he cleans.

(He use to hide into Kamukura when he wanted to avoid its sight. Tuck himself further into the blanket, and under the man's chin. It was the easy way out. To hide beneath him, even if he feels suffocated in the warmth that comes with it.

Kamukura does not question when he throws a sheet over it, after he’s done cleaning.)

//

When he discovers where they’ve preserved her, he finds that her body is on ice. Pieces cut off with an amount of care and delicacy he hasn’t seen from them in years. He supposed it only made sense. Her body was already mangled, with so little to reasonably pluck from and even less they could actively use.

Her arms are almost perfect. Almost. The right one is broken, snapped and bent at an odd angle. Her left arm has bruising, a few cuts in it that may never actually heal.

A shame, he thinks. Considering he’s left handed. But also, somehow, just what he deserves. 

Just his luck.

Even in death, her face is still so beautiful. She’s missing teeth, hues of blue and purple web across her cheek, a gash across her forehead and fresh lipstick that doesn’t hide the how dry her lips were upon her death. But she’s still beautiful, and he takes a moment to revere her form for a final time before he mutalilates it further.

Her hand is chilled and cold, and when he holds it he can only shakily wheeze out in excitement. 

//

Komaeda collapses across from Kamukura instead of next to him, shifts his legs so they’re close to his chest. He rests his head on his knees and closes his eyes and breaths into his legs, 

“You haven’t eaten today,” Kamukura notes, without looking up from his laptop.

“I ate before you got up,” He says, easy, despite being weak limbed and bleary eyed.

Kamukura looks at him from across the table. He’s feels as though he’s all limbs, can’t find a way to get comfortable despite himself. 

“You’re lying,” Kamukura notes, and doesn’t even have the decency to pretend for even a moment, that he believes him. 

“Ah,” He plays it off as a joke, as though he didn’t actually think he’d get away with that, “Izuru, as always, sees right through me!” 

Kamukura starts typing. Stops typing. Peers over at him from his computer screen. 

Continues typing when Komaeda gets up to grab something to eat. 

//

There’s a tablesaw in Souda’s workshop.

An old thing, looted from the remains of Hope's Peak a year back. There’s enough modifications on it that it might as well be a new machine entirely. Souda’s baby. Can cut through nearly any material. Metal or plastic, stone or machine. He’s seen car parts torn through and weapons eaten. Seen him shove a skull in it, before.

He admires the machine with a certain amount of deference, fingers tracing over familiar and unfamiliar buttons alike. He knows what each do. Knows how to work his machine, from the times he’d been ordered to sit and sort through tool and machine part alike. 

Kamukura is standing across from him, gazing down at the machine from the other side. 

He jumps. Normally he notices the man immediately. His presence is something inescapable, and radiant. A quiet type of consuming. Like a black hole, that slowly gathered his attention in its entirety. And by the time he noticed it? Wholly Inescapable.

He could very well be drowned by the man’s presence, when he gets so close.

“You’ve figured it out,” Servant says, practically shivers in his spot. Because of course he had. It’s Kamukura. He could figure anything out, “Come to watch?”

Kamukura had only given a passing glance to the others' surgery. Had been forced to sit on standby as Tsumiki cut into herself, trembling hands and wicked grin. She’d only managed to get half way through before passing out, dizzied and unwell. Had only managed to finish half her duty.

It was not a mistake he would make.

Kamukura doesn’t look up from gazing upon the machine. There is no amount of reverence in his gaze. No amount of respect for a machine that’s had so much care and work placed into it.

He struggles to imagine Kamukura worshipping anything. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, like that. The only thing he’s aware of is his quiet breathlessness, paralysis that roots himself into place. He’s unsure if it’s fear. Respect? A certain amount of awareness in his lack of capability, when in the presence of someone so grand.

He doesn’t know what compels him to speak. He’s normally obedient. Complacent. Has been taught by hand and command to know his simple, easy place in this world. But it’s with a shaky smile that he begins, not daring to look the man in the eye. 

He would never be on Kamukura’s level. Not realistically.

“She said a lot of things about you, you know,” He says, stroking his fingers down the cold, unresponsive arm cradled in his own. He takes a moment to intertwine his fingers within hers, like she was never willing to. Holds it there for comfort, “She seemed to believe that with you on our side, we would continue after her death. That we would thrive. Because you are God among men, just as she was. Euphony to her chaos.”

Kamukura does not answer him. Does not turn his gaze away. Does not even tilt his head.

“She was right about one thing,” He pulls himself up straighter, shivers, “You’re Fantastic.”

“Fantastic,” Kamukura repeats, immediate. A perfect echo, tone and all.

“Indescribable. Phenomenal. Intoxicating, but inconspicuous,“ He doesn’t need to consider his words, “It’s beautiful. Your existence is something of beauty.”

Kamukura’s hand lowers to his side.

“I wasn’t sure how to feel about you at first, you know,” He admits, tracing along the edge of her fingers. The nails are chipped, and broken. Something he’ll need to fix, down the line, “But she told me. Convinced me of your worth. It’s hard to imagine any artificial hope being so sincere. But look at you. Your existence, Kamukura-sama, is nebulous. Ah- It makes sense, doesn’t it? If true Despair is born, then true Hope must created. They are opposites. Despair infects, Hope heals. Despair consumes, Hope must be sought.”

He  _ shivers _ .

“I do have to wonder. Do you think Despair can be created? True despair, like Enoshima-sama herself. Someone so vitriolic and wretched that you’ve no choice but to follow them,” He lowers the hand onto the table next to him, covers it with a towel so it may not be messed in the aftermath, “What do you think?”

Kamukura. Doesn’t reply right away. Servant doesn’t think he’ll even get a reply.

And then.

“Your thoughts are pointless, and tedious. You only ramble because you are nervous to proceed.”

Servant almost stutters over a laugh, “Ah,” He says, softly, “You don’t quite play along like she did. A shame. I liked that about her.”

Truly, he thinks, worthy of the title Ultimate Hope. 

“She always said you find entertainment in very little,” He whispers. Stares down at the table saw, considerately. Uses his finger to trace along the sharpened edge. It's sharp enough to slice his finger on. Sharp enough that it barely takes a moment of tracing to bleed. Turned off, and unmoving.

It strings.

Not that it matters much. Considering. 

“Do you think this will entertain you?” Komaeda asks, breath heavy, as his fingers dig deeper into the blade. He thinks he might just mean something else. Knows that he’s not presumptuous enough to ask _ “Will I entertain you?” _

Knows that Kamukura is smart enough to pick up on the intentions he cannot and refuses to understand.

“It does not matter,” Kamukura is looking directly at him, “You are lucky. I will watch you survive this. It will become a boring, superficial endeavor, that will do little more than make your life difficult, and provide you with a momentary sense of sentimentality. It is pathetic. An act of self-fulfillment. And then life will go on. Despair will continue to consume you, and the world will continue to deteriorate under the path she’s set.”

That stare is something that has always burnt into him. 

His grin widens. He flicks the powerbutton on, and watches the saw whirl to life. There a butterflies in his stomach as he listens to it’s screech, a final warning he knows so well to ignore. There’s a line on his arm he’s prepared to cut through, and a ghost looming over him to tempt him to it. And no amount of nerves will destroy her trust.

“And yet you’re still here,” He whispers, eyes fixating ahead of him, “Interested. A test?”

Kamukura tilts his head. Does not answer. 

“We shall see then.”

It’s with that, that Servant slams his arm down onto the table saw and lets blades rip through his flesh and split through his bone.

(He thinks he can feel each blood vessel pop and every vein that disconnects. He knows he can feel the static in his vision, knows he feels the momentary shock of metal biting his skin. He knows, with certainty, that he looses his breath to sobs and gasps. Knows the feeling of Kamukura’s gaze, dissecting through him. Knows the feeling of beautiful, horrible, and immediate regret.

She would be so proud.)

//

While he’s never been particularly good at cooking, he’s always been willing to prep food.

Cutting up food is easy. He can’t do it masterfully like Kamukura can. The slices are imperfect, uneven and mismatched. It’s not that their knives are dull. Kamukura takes care to keep them sharpened. He just hesitates sometimes. Stalls half way through the slight, accidentally moves what he’s cutting. 

Doubts himself.

Kamukura doesn’t mind. It’s still usable. The food will still be eaten. The ingredients can still be used. That doesn’t change that he still feels the smallest amount of guilt over messing something so simple up.

He cuts up tomatoes and garlic with the same amount of dedication he does any other task.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he blinks. Doesn’t realize he can’t breath until he’s slammed the knife hard enough into the cutting board that it sticks. Doesn’t realize he’s practically curled in on himself until he’s on the floor, trying to force himself to breath.

(It only misses the stump of his ruined arm by an inch. He thinks he might just be able to hit it, next time.)

//

When he wakes up, he is cold, and he is alone. 

His fingers brush against the pretty, careful, half finished stitches he’d managed to get through his arm.

And quietly. Alone. He finishes his job.

(At the end of it all, the stitching isn’t enough to hold the arm steady. It was an impossible belief; that he might be able to match the two pieces together. That they could click like a puzzle. But when he wraps the bandaging around her arm, it holds it in place. It doubles as hiding the bruises.)

//

He pulls himself back together at their table, staring down at the grains in the wood and patterns on the blanket.

“You’ve grounded yourself?”

“Be quiet,” His arm hurts, he notes. Itches around the stump, burns against his nerves. His fingers flex and unflex against the wood of the table, attempting to find grip in something unwilling to give it to him.

“You are-”

“I said be quiet,” His words are poisonous, exhausted. Immediately regrets it, with a stone in his stomach. And then, weakly, “Please Izuru. I just want to eat dinner.”

“...” Kamukura reaches over to shut his laptop, taking care not to make the click pointed, reaches over to push the cup closer to his hand. Heavy, stone, and warm. No handle. Despite himself, he takes the chance to wrap his hand around it and grip, ignoring the way the slight tremor causes ripples in the content of the glass, “You overworked yourself,” Kamukura mentions, as though off hand, “I would have prepared dinner.”

He doesn’t think he has the brazen to speak up against Kamukura so bluntly. Not originally. He’s tempted to reach over to turn the TV on to whatever static is playing, perhaps rewind whatever VHS he’d been sloppy enough to leave in. But the warmth of the cup he is holding keeps him latched on, and he does not think he could move his stump. 

“If you had asked for help,” Kamukura begins. Pauses, “I would have helped you.”

“Why didn’t you just  _ help _ ,” He asks, can’t help his own tone, “Why didn’t you stop me. Why didn’t you order me to stop.”

“... Was it my place to? Would you have listened?”

“I don’t know.”

“...” With that, Kamukura pulls himself up to finish dinner.

The conversation is over. There’s nothing more for them to talk about.

(That night, when he goes to sleep alone, the mirror has been screwed out of the dresser. It’s not something he’d asked for. Hadn’t even mentioned it, really.

He wonders if it took Kamukura this long to notice. Why he’d even bothered.)


	19. reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Komaeda repeats himself.

There’s a fog, early that morning. 

Thick enough that he can’t see but a foot in front of him. 

He still goes about his morning routine as normal (grabs himself a cup of tea, easy enough to brew on his own), paces the mud choked paths to make sure nothings been killed overnight. The frost still coats the ground, and grass crunches under his foot, and he has the sinking suspicion the frost has hurt his tomato plants.

There’s something hypnotic about routine. Easy enough to get trapped in, easier not to question.

But sometimes, he breaks out of it. Maybe today, it’s the fog. Maybe it’s the uncertainty that’s already burning hot on the back of his mind. But he continues making his way down the hill. Follows the worn in path down to the pond that has become an eerie haunt, close and unavoidable, looming and silent. He listens to the way water laps at the sand, eyes gloss over the mist that dances over the water.

It’s not so scary, he thinks, as the chill crawls up his spine. And the fog, for all it hides, really is beautiful.

(He wishes he could remember the world outside of it, is all.)

//

There are areas of the world that remain unravaged by the tragedy. 

They certainly aren’t thriving. Simple things overpriced and rotten, people overexposed and underwhelmed by the amount of death in their day to day life. There’s something inherently hopeful about passing by an alleyway and hearing the simple humming as a woman hangs her children's clothing to dry, or the distant sound of chatter coming from a dinnery too fine for most of society.

They tend to avoid those areas. It's easier to exist as a ghost when there's no one there to ask questions. Easier to hop between the rubble of old apartment buildings and abandoned hotels then it is to deal with the remains and complexities of society.

(They stay in one with a dollhouse once. An elegant set up with a crack down the middle, dolls whose hair has been diligently and lovingly chopped off and plastic skin laboriously marked up. He reaches down to grab it, frowns at the fine details on the piece, wonders what happened to the child who crafted it.)

But sometimes they have to pass through these areas. Sometimes, it's to watch as riots begin to form. People angered by the hand they’ve been given, forced to starve while others remain untouched. Sometimes it’s to hook up the bombs Souda is too indiscreet to do himself, twisting between crowds of people and slipping them into often unnoticed cracks and easy hiding spots.

And sometimes, it’s simply to daydream. Because very few people question the ash stained clothing of the outsiders that come in when bills of yen are thrown on their table. Very few people deny them a room, when offered a moment's worth of easier survival. 

It’s hard to hide in the depths of society. But they blend in with ease, unquestioned and unassumed.

//

He finds his old collar, tucked away in their bedside drawer.

It’s not as though it's hidden. He  _ thinks _ he remembers putting it there one day, just to get it out of the way. Never really remembered to dig it back out, and notedly never felt the need to. The metal is cold to his touch, collar heavy in his hands. Kamukura’s name is etched into the back, Enoshima’s carved and scratched out in a way that doesn’t entirely hide his history.

His fingers trace into the engravings, along the curve of it.

He clicks it into place and holds it there. 

It would be nice to pretend for a bit, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and marvels in the way it cuts his breath.

If Kamukura notices, he does not mention it. 

(Rather, he  _ knows _ Kamukura notices. Because he approaches him tiredly. Kneels beside him and rests his head on his knee like he used to, and tries to lull himself back into a familiar security that comes with the tapping of keys and feeling of a hand momentarily resting on his head. 

He stares ahead at the grains in the desk, and wonders why he feels so cold.)

  
  


//

He starts off sleeping on the ground

Prefers it. 

Then he sleeps at the end of the bed, like a dog. He thinks he might care more about that than Kamukura does, as the man never really questions his sleeping arrangements.

Sometimes, frequently, he sleeps amongst the trash and decay. It is the only time Kamukura seems to care, hurts his nose when he returns and side eyes him with something he might just classify as hatred. 

But there is nowhere more becoming for him than the filth of the outside world. And sometimes when he sleeps there, he gets lucky. Hears tell, of plans that are not his own.

//

There’s no more static to watch on the television.

The news doesn’t talk about Ultimate Despair anymore. Doesn’t talk much about tragedy these days, not since Future Foundation took over the airwaves. Instead, it’s reruns of old game shows and old dramas and coverage of Naegi Makoto making a speech with bags under his eyes but a smile on his face.

It feels fake. Over compensation for years of destruction that's been broadcasted. Hiding the despair and pretending like it’s hope.  _ Pretending _ like it’s not just an eggshell of a coverup, that the despair won’t eventually rip it apart from beneath as it’s enclosure becomes overwhelmed. They can pretend like they haven’t faced their rapture, but the broken landscapes behind their idol speaks more truth than his speeches.

Or maybe, he considers, it's just him. Because it’s getting harder to keep up his conviction. Because maybe this is hope, beaten and battered but still, after all this time, crawling. Maybe this is what hope is, and has always been. Not a show of glory and grandeur, but a whisper of peace and sobriety. 

It made sense. Enoshima wanted infamy. She’d wanted to be known the world over, have her name shown and preached. Hope was quiet, and had hid behind it all. Despair overwhelming and attractive, and Hope teetered the lines of nonexistence.

This could be hope. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but it could very well be hope.

“Do you think they’ve been killed?” He’ll ask Kamukura, again, he  _ knows _ it’s  _ again _ . Knows the words taste familiar on his tongue, but cannot place the feeling of deja vu beyond it. 

“They would advertise it,” It sounds like Kamukura is reminding him, has the sort of tone that comes with a phrase he’s memorized, “For months. We would know.”

“I would forget,” He points out, “You wouldn’t tell me.”

“I would,” Kamukura does not hesitate to rebuttal that, “It does not matter to me, how distressed you’d be at their passing. I would not lie to you if I knew of their fates.”

Komaeda grips his chain from under the table, tugs on it sharp enough to choke and imagines it to be Kamukura’s hand instead.

//

They occasionally find cigarettes in the rubble. 

Kamukura tends to go through them quickly. He can be quite greedy like that. Gets cranky when he runs out, despite running through the fuel on his own indulgence. Servant will lean up to force Kamukura's lips to his own, getting some of the aftertaste of nicotine on his tongue.

Tastes gross. But he still does so without hesitation, because he knows it’s one of the few sources of relief he’ll find in his lifetime.

(Sometimes Servant manages to steal cigarettes from his box. Sometimes he just takes one as Kamukura is fetching one for himself, gives him a coy smile at the side eye he gets in return.

He always manages to steal the last one. Slips it out of the box when Kamukura isn’t looking. There's no way Kamukura doesn't notice, but never says anything. Kamukura had always liked letting him get away with things. Has always liked that he disobeys.)

//

“I used to be able to read english,” He tells Kamukura, matter of factly.

“I am aware,” It is not enough to get Kamukura’s attention on its lonesome. 

“Oh, have I told you?” He says, and it’s arid. An attempt to continue, despite the coil of fire in his chest.

“It has come up before.”

“Ah. Well. There was this book I read when I was younger-”

“Shakespeare?” 

“No. Lovecraft,” He doesn’t mean to sound as firm as he does, but he finds his gaze sharply moving to face letters on his page instead of Kamukura.

“...” 

“This story was about. A man. Who lives alone in a castle, surrounded by an endless forest,” He thumbs at the paper of his book with trembling hands, stares down at the pages instead of at Kamukura, “He- He’s never seen the outside world, you see, nor anyone else. The only knowledge he has of others comes from novels, and the memory of another person is so distant it may as well be nonexistent.”

Kamukura isn’t typing, anymore. His fingers have stalled on the keyboard, and the flickering of the screen reflects in a gaze that he knows is refusing to meet his own.

“And so one day, he climbs the top of his castle. There’s ah-- This ruined stairwell. And he has to clamour over it. It’s long, and dreadful, but eventually he gets to the top and finds this trapdoor. And when he crawls out, he finds himself in a different world.”

Kamukura still isn’t typing. Still isn’t looking at him, but is paying attention.

And he tempts himself to finish his story. To craft him a tale of loneliness, one that is not his to tell. His words fail him. He’s not sure if Kamukura actually cares about a story he surely already knows. He’s not sure if he remembers how the story ends, not really. Only remembers the looming feeling of uncertainty that had come with it. 

He opens his mouth to continue. Closes it.

He doesn’t even remember why he brought it up in the first place.

“Nevermind,” He says, and he can’t help the chill in his tone, “You know the story I am talking about.”

“I do.”

//

The only time he sees emotion in Kamukura’s gaze is after he's slaughtered. After he’s  _ indulged _ .

He doesn't go out of his way to. Not really. But they are targets, together, collectively. And inevitably, there will be someone who doesn’t take the yen. Doesn’t take the warning of a cold, hard side eye. Doesn’t know how to mind their own, keep themselves safe. 

Doesn’t know their hope is weaker then his own.

(They’re easy to spot. Even easier to tempt. Smile wider, stare longer, give a laugh where it shouldn’t be.)

These are the times Future Foundation gets called on them, together. There are other times, of course. Sometimes Future Foundation manages to track the locations of other remnants, those less careful and secure then themselves. And Kamukura needs to turn heel and find his way to them, to take care of their numbers so that Ultimate Despair stands strong. He does so with an air of ease and reliability, and though none of them ever place a name to it, his role of ghost leader is unquestioned and secured with each new round of Future Foundation he takes out. With each new body added to his count. 

They wouldn’t question his order. Wouldn’t question hope. 

Servant can’t think of a better man to serve, though his role as Servant is technically to that of despair as a whole. Enoshima had made sure of that. He follows around Kamukura like a roach, unable to be killed despite being stepped on.

And Kamukura keeps him around. Steps on Servant until he bites, and finds amusement in the pain that comes from it.

  
  


//

When all else fails, they share a bed.

The same as they do any night, really. Only, Komaeda’s hands can’t really decide where to settle. Usually this comes naturally between them. He’s never had to think when acting with Kamukura. Has always just allowed instinct to guide his actions, has always gotten lucky, been correct. 

(He feels more nerves now, than when they’d first slept together. Because then, he’d known his place. Had known himself to be a failure, and really it was never for his pleasure. He was giving Kamukura something he rarely had; was letting the man explore and indulge.)

Familiarity's comfort had long since melted away, leaving him in a pool of nerves. He kisses him, dry lipped and desperate, runs his hands into his hair and grips. Pulls it back, ignores the way Kamukura’s breath stutters over itself as a result. 

Tries kissing him again.

And again

Again.

He kisses him hard enough that their teeth knock together, that he might just bruise their lips, force their passion. 

It doesn’t work. 

“It’s not the same,” He says, shakidly, against Kamukura’s lips.

Kamukura looks at him, breathless. He doesn’t bother to interrupt him. Doesn’t even try to.

“It’s not like it used to be, it’s not- right,” He says, faster this time, more desperate, “Nothing feels the same anymore Izuru. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like the world is falling apart around us. I don’t feel like I’m supposed to.”

Kamukura stares at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. He wonders if he’s unsure or what to say, or simply chooses not to say anything on the matter. 

“Why do you refuse to be rough with me, when we’re together?”

“I don’t understand,” Komaeda knows that's a lie. That he humors him anyway.

“You don’t hurt me,” He says, sharply, “You won’t use me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what we agreed on, isn’t it? I told you you could do anything you wanted to me. Because I want to be used by you. I want- What we used to have,” The security in it. The comfort. How easy it had been not to question anything and to allow his mind to slip away for years, willfully ignorant of his own demise.

Kamukura traces the edge of his collar, fingers dance on the engraving of his name, “That is entirely reliant on you.”

Yet, when they kiss again, it’s because Kamukura pulls him by the chain. Harshly yanks him forward, so that his lip busts against Kamukura’s, so that he’s forced to focus solely on him. And for a moment, it’s reprieve. For a moment, he’s able to make himself believe that Kamukura is listening. That he’s at peace.

And then they continue, it fizzles out to nothing.

//

He keeps a five shot revolver tucked in the pocket of his jacket, just within reach of his good hand. Though most of the time, it only has four shots, it comes through when he needs it too. 

Sometimes he helps Kamukura in his slaughter.

(Kamukura’s kills may be quick, but rarely are they clean. Servant prefers an easy shot. One hit to the head, to the heart. Sometimes the revolver will gift them life, hit the round without a bullet. He doesn’t go in for a second shot, in those chances, and Kamukura never chases after them when they run.

A risky way to kill, he knows. But if he is unlucky enough that fate allows the wrong person free, then who is he to disagree?)

However, most of the time, Kamukura will take the bulk of the kill. And at the end of it all, Servant will be clean, save for the blood on his shoes and splatter on his cheek. And Kamukura will be soaked through, heavy breaths that heave his shoulders, a gaze with pupils blown to their limits.

Servant understands, if nothing else, the euphoria, the adrenaline that comes with this.

He steps forward, careful to avoid the cadaver. Kamukura doesn’t turn to gaze at him. But he knows. He sees the way his head tilts in his direction, fingers twitch and figure tenses in anticipation. Servant imagines the hyper awareness of his own actions. Tries to encapsulate everything he thinks Kamukura is feeling, in that moment. The shots of adrenaline, creeping and lingering dread. No regret, of course. Never regret. They do what they have to, and the rest of the world means little to a man worthy of godhood.

He is above them, and their butchering is nothing more than sacrifice to his ardor.

“...How do you think the others would respond, seeing you riled up like this?” He asks, his own hands trembling. He is unsure if it is in fear, or awe. He is even further unsure, on whether or not it truly matters. Because seeing Kamukura in this state is a gift. Something to behold, and admire, “Do you think they would truly be able to appreciate this? Or would they simply coward before you?”

They both know the answer. Kamukura does not dignify him by answering a rhetoric. 

He takes another step forward, “Junko knew. Didn’t she?”

“You got us caught,” It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact, easy and careful, interrupts his line of thought immediately. And Servant’s smile can’t help but become a little more sincere, “Lured them here?”

“Ah! So Kamukura-sama knew from the start! Is it a gift, Or a fault? Ah! You can kill me if you want, you know. As punishment. To continue to relish in your destruction?" He whispers, is not bold enough to reach out and grab him, but is desperate enough to reach out to him, "Doesn’t even have to be that. Anything you want, Kamukura-sama."

Kamukura looks at him. Servant, normally, makes an attempt to lower himself before the man. Make himself seem smaller. But right now, Kamukura has to glower up at him. And it is enough to send his nerves running. Like electricity, leaves him both paralyzed and shaking. He’s close enough that he can feel the man's breath ghost his skin, knows his own has been stolen.

“I want to be manhandled by you,” Servant tells him, uses what feels like the last of his being to do so.

“I know,” Kamukura’s response is automatic, lacking the usual apathy he associates with the man. It is radiant, engulfing. Addicting, to hear him so fulfilled. 

“I want my end to be at your hands,” He finally reaches out to grasp the man's jacket, grips at it hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Hard enough to squeeze some of the blood out of the cloth, and onto his skin. He can imagine, for a moment, that it’s his own, “Could cut my throat. Rip me apart piece by piece. Ah..” 

Servant shivers at the thought.

“That. Is not for you to decide,” Kamukura determines, and he almost sounds frustrated. He’s approaching now, however. Despite the fact that Servant is the one with a grip on him, Kamukura is the one backing him into a corner.

“I suppose it never has been,” Is his immediate, thoughtless reply.

There's blood on his teeth when Kamukura kisses Servant. He knows the iron he tastes belongs to neither of them. Kamukura slams him against the wall hard enough to sting, and Servant grips his hair in the immediate scramble for some kind of stability, and the world around them melts away in the heat of the moment.

There are few things in this world Kamukura enjoys.

Very few things. He wants to be that for him. Wants to give that to him. He’ll hide his face into the crook of his neck and breath in the scent of blood and sweat, and know with certainty that something about this is  _ correct _ .

  
  
  


//

Once again, he's brought back to his days in hospital. 

Thin sheets that never truly seemed to warm him well enough, a rhythmic beep that bore into his ear. Distant chatter that was never for him, not really, beyond the few nurses and doctors that came and went from his room. Treatment that never seemed to help, not really, and the sound of a gameshow that he'd never enjoyed. 

Eventually, he'd just stopped going all together. No point in saving something not worth surviving. He’s always been better off as rubbish, discardable and rotting.

It was survival of the fittest, and he’d never been the healthiest.

Still. The pit of dread is unavoidable, and overwhelming, and he stares ahead like he can escape it. 

He realizes, in that moment, that he wants to find some kind of comfort in Kamukura’s touch. He wants to crawl back under the sheets and hide his face in the crook of his neck, feel the slightest of breath touch the skin of his neck. It would be familiar. Assurance. He could make himself believe that Kamukura loves him, that he knows with certainty that he’ll continue to protect him.

But some ugly, nasty, unforgiving thing freezes him when he goes to indulge again. He goes so far as to ease himself under the same blanket, before he’s frozen in place again. Feels like the cat who’s just gotten caught sneaking around the corner.

He decides not to.

Kamukura, he knows, can't save him from this haunt. Has only ever been able to hide him from them.

He’s exhausted, from hiding for so long.

Gets up from their bed and drags himself to their bathroom instead.

//

Kamukura keeps his eyes open, the first few times they kiss.

It’s not something he notices immediately, because Servant cannot bear to do the same.

Kissing Kamukura is not unlike what he imagines kissing a corpse to be like. A warm corpse. Entirely unreactive, stiff. An air of taboo to what he’s doing. It’s not as though he has much experience with it, granted. Enoshima had preferred taking the show of romantics to Tsumiki.

(He gets better at it with time. Kamukura has always been quick to pick up on things.) 

But when he gets like this, it’s different. Heavy hands that yank at his lead and rip through his hair. He doesn’t have to ask Kamukura to hurt him. He does so easily and carelessly, fervently but knowingly. And Servant doesn’t hesitate to do the same. Digs his nails into pristine skin and bites hard enough that he’ll regret it later. 

Kamukura ignores the hysterical giggles that come when Servant gets what he wants. Always has. Servant appreciates that about him.

//

It takes a while for Kamukura to come and linger in the doorway of their bathroom, half dressed and weary. He does not feel guilt about causing either. They’re both tired. Have been tired since the day Enoshima passed, since before then.

Komaeda focuses on the sound of water dripping into the tub, hides his head in his legs, forces himself to feel smaller. 

“Why are you awake, Izuru."

“You should have asked for my assistance,” Kamukura tells him, upfront, “Or allowed yourself to sleep.”

“I wanted to be alone for a bit,” Komaeda says, lies into his knees, “I wanted some time to think."

“...” He hears Kamukura’s sigh echo around the bathroom.

“I wanted to be clean,” When he raises his head, there's a smile firm and straining on his lips. He doesn’t know why he bothers “Is that so much to ask?”

Kamukura walks over to take a seat on the edge of the tub. Doesn’t respect the implication of his request enough to leave, but doesn’t dare to reach out and touch him. His fingertips barely graze the surface of it, but he doesn’t try to touch him.

“... The water is cold.”

“I am following in your lead!” Komaeda says, chipper, bright, and it immediately crumbles when his voice cracks at the end, “Is that not fair, Izuru? Have you not exemplified your perfection to me? Why shouldn’t I follow in your heed?”

Kamukura turns to him, sharply. Stares at him, and he thinks he might just see a moment of anger boiling under his gaze. A moment of annoyance?

And he’s grateful, because it’s  _ something _ . He’s still able to get something out of Kamukura.

Komaeda does not feel trapped, like this. His nails dig into his own skin, hard enough that he knows it will leave red streaks across. Annoyed, perhaps. But he knows that Kamukura will not stop him from leaving, should he choose. 

“I do not think I can give you what we used to have,” Kamukura tells him, as he stares at the collar that had been less than subtly thrown across the room, “Were I able to find the same rapture in tragedy, I would have. However, it has become dull to me. Even killing became dull to me, long before we took refuge here.”

Komaeda’s eyes narrow into his knees, “Why bother humoring me.”

“The same reason you bothered to pretend,” Kamukura doesn’t need to consider his answer, “We’ve always had a talent for fooling ourselves.”

  
  
  


//

They never really talk about it. Is the thing.

Never talk about their relationship. It’s easier, has always been easier, just to  _ do _ . 

And at the end of it all, When Komaeda pulls himself up with bruises up his side, bite marks down his neck, and blood that’s neither his nor Kamukura’s dried into his hair, neither of them bring it up.

Euphoria has never come easy to either of them. But they can give each other that much. Ask for what he craved, more than anything in the world. If not to be destroyed by him, than to be used, and consumed entirely. 

Kamukura didn’t take care of him, after the fact. Not back then. Instead, he’s left to pull himself together, doesn’t really bother, as he catches his breath on cold, tainted stone. He instead reaches over to slide the case of cigarettes they found out of the pocket of Kamukura’s abandoned and still bloodied suit jacket, and makes a point to steal the last one. 

“Sometimes I think about burning everything down,” He admits to Kamukura, as he flicks their shared lighter open with one hand, “Don’t you think it would be easier, like that?”

Kamukura doesn’t bother looking at him. He finishes buttoning up his dress shirt, soaked with barely a drop of blood despite his slaughter, “You already have.”

Kamukura is generous enough to once again ignore his laughter. 

//

Kamukura watches as he wraps himself up in a towel, sits on the lid of the toilet and folds his hands together thoughtfully. Komaeda is, has always been, shivering. 

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Kamukura comments, thoughtfully, as though he’s commenting on the weather.

“I’ve always been sick,” He replies, and this time doesn’t force himself to smile. He stares at his reflection, hollowed eyes, broken lip, pale skin that only seems to showcase the web of veins under his skin. Ducks his head down to hide from himself, “We’re both sick, aren’t we? I think- We’ve always been sick.”

“Hm,” Kamukura looks up at him.

His bottle of pills remains where it always is, the corner of the counter, just within his reach. Komaeda grips at it with the same tight knuckle grip as he always does, takes the shitty assortment of medication Kamukura has prescribed him and lays it about on the counter. 

Stares at it. He hasn’t taken his dose today.

“I don’t think I want to be alive anymore,” He admits to Kamukura, wraps his hands around his neck and squeezes hard enough to hurt the branding the collar had left, “Why won’t you let me die?”

“You’re not useful to me dead,” Same answer as always.

“I don’t care if I’m not useful to you. I don’t want to be anymore.”

“What you want in this case is irrelevant. Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

...

Pointedly, Komaeda takes a fistful of his pills. Kamukura stops him, easily, before he could throw them into the still draining tub water and ruin them. Pulls himself up and blocks his path, grabs him by the waist and holds him there. Grips his only working hand with his own and stops it from uncurling.

He’s warm. Like fire. Melts away his anger into something greater.

“Nagito.”

“Sometimes I think about burning it all down,” Komaeda mumbles, like he thinks it’s a rational reply to this. Like he doesn’t know of his own irrationality, “But I already have, haven’t I? We’ve already destroyed everything, haven’t we? A long time ago.”

Kamukura’s eyebrows furrow at him

“I’m beginning to think-” His worship is misplaced. That he’s forgotten more than he’s gained. He’s not sure what he wants to tell Kamukura, so instead he tells him nothing. Because it’s easier, easier to let himself burn away. 

He doesn’t give much more than that.

When they crawl back into bed, Komaeda does not bother to dress himself. Takes the thickest blanket on the bed and wraps himself up in it, alone, and warm. Makes sure to take the side closest to the window. Stares at Kamukura as he takes it, as though daring him to comment on it.

Kamukura does not.


	20. liminal spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they talk. again. things fall back into place

(Sometimes Komaeda dreams he's walking on a beach.

He knows it's a dream, because Kamukura turns and smiles at him.

It’s calming. Like serenity.)

He wakes up curled up against Kamukura, the next morning. 

It’s comfortable. Easy. Despite their argument, that is not technically an argument, from the night prior, he feels a sense of ease overcome him. A bleak clarity, after everything that’s been said.

(Except nothing was actually said. Nothing was actually done. It was the most they’ve said to each other in weeks, vile and cold. But he comes out of it not feeling horrid, and not feeling betrayed. But rather relieved. Because they can still talk to one another. It was a glimmer of hope, and he has always worked with what hope has given him.)

He wonders how long he can soak in this, before the feeling of regret finally takes him again.

(The answer, as it turns out, is not long. He attempts to lull himself back to sleep once again. To enjoy basking in euphoria while it lasts. But he no longer sleeps days away, not to the same extent that he used to.

Kamukura does. He doesn’t think this will ever change about Kamukura. He thinks he might be fine with that.)

He eases out of Kamukura’s arms, takes the time to comb Kamukura’s hair out of his face.

(Average, but beautiful. Familiar and calm. Kamukura doesn’t even shift under his touch)

He knows two things to be true, in that moment. He needs time to think, and he needs to be out of the house to do it.

( _ “Running errands. Be back soon”) _

//

  
  


“I have a proposition for you,” He tells Kamukura, late into the night, when their group has scattered back to the wastelands, “One that might benefit the both of us.”

//

  
  


Getting into town isn’t hard at all. 

He knows the pathways by now. Even with a memory as bad as his own, it is not hard to follow. 

The road up into town is paved. 

Somewhat, at least. It is not a new pavement by any stretch of the means. But rather old and cracked, and damaged by the elements, dirt and plants overtaking it. There are no forks in the old road, the signs are just readable enough to work. If he forgets where he’s going, he remembers with time.

It’s been a while since he’s come into town.

Or at least, he thinks it has. The way the town has been decorated is unfamiliar to him, and there's a few new shops that have opened up in buildings he distinctly remembers being abandoned. But the shop owners smile at him with familiarity, and he decides to doubt his own memory.

He could kill Kamukura. 

He stares at his reflection in the shop window, once again observes his own frail form, tired eyes. 

What would that solve, anyway? He doesn’t  _ want _ to kill him. He knows, with certainty, that he would die without Kamukura. Has told Kamukura as much in the past. But Kamukura trusts him enough that it would be so easy (Thinks back to the morning, earlier, how he didn’t move in the slightest when he shifted away from him. How much Kamukura must trust him now.

He feels guilt over how easily the thought comes to him. Over the cravings of despair he still feels, wants to feed with his own lovers demise.)

He could leave him.

But where would he go? What would that solve? That was just as good of an option as killing him. And he finds, after further thought, that he does not want to be apart from him. It would be an easy solution, to go back to wandering the wastelands of despair as they lessen throughout the years. But he’s once again been spoiled by the comforts of modern life, has made a home for himself that he’s not too keen on letting go of.

And well. He does love Kamukura. He thinks. Supposes. 

He offers the baker a few crummy bills, getting the smallest honey bun he can spot. He picks up a few groceries from the stalls that line the street, doesn’t offer them much more than a few tired words. When he stops to get a drink, he makes sure that it’s nothing more than water.

//

Kamukura has a room that he stays in, all to himself, when he visits Ultimate Despair. 

It’s Enoshima’s old room. The gaudy wallpapers have been torn down, bright pinks replaced with reds, bedazzled yellows with blacks. Furs are exchanged for silks, and blinds for blackout curtains. Red Candles, for when the power cuts, and well polished wood that he did not pick.

Kamukura has a look he likes to keep, an aesthetic he plays into that rings too similarly to despair's. 

Servant comes in, when he’s gone. The others are not allowed, but he keeps it clean for him. Kamukura is not a man of many worldly possessions, so there’s not too much to take care of. But it’s a nice reminder of his presence, and when Kamukura returns, he seems pleased at its state.

It’s different, however, when he is here. 

Servant feels awkward, lingering too long, when Kamukura is present. A private space he does not yet belong in, to a person that is not technically his own. He knows this to not  _ technically _ be true. Kamukura has invited him in to get what use he can out of him, whether it be keeping the space clean (It messes easier, when Kamukura is here. It is easier to clean as he makes the mess, rather than when he leaves.) or because he knows he’s an easy, unquestioning fuck.

“Have you considered my proposition yet?” He asks Kamukura, “You’re already able to do anything to me. Why do you not make it official? An inheritance, from one leader, to another.”

“If I wanted an inheritance, I would turn to Tsumiki,” Kamukura snaps irritably against his neck. Komaeda can’t help but weeze out a laugh.

“Perhaps! But we are no different, Tsumiki and I. She knows that well!”

Kamukura turns them over, forces him onto his back. The bed squeaks under his weight, and he is reminded that the walls here are purposefully thin. Kamukura narrows his gaze, and he almost loses it in the low light, “Am I supposed to replace her?”

“Our relationship would be different,” Servant doesn’t have to lie about that. He knows it to be true, "You know it as well as I do, no one can replace Enoshima."

Kamukura reaches down to pin his wrists above his head. He does not miss the fact that her hand is above his own, "How many people do you expect to lay with, in this room?"

"I could ask you the same question,” Servant points out, shudders as his legs tighten around Kamukura’s waist, “You act as though the rest of Despair is unaware of your associations,” He closes his eyes, sucks in a breath as Kamukura pushes his shirt up. Observes the bruises left across his ribcage. 

"How many people do you expect to serve here?"

"Despair itself. The group is my master. But hope can sway me back just as easily. It's such a simple fix. You know this, yet you do not take me."

"Hmph."

“Can I not ask you the same question? How often do you indulge in your vices? Do you truly believe you’re leading? Do you want to be here, Kamukura-sama? Do you want to replace her? Or are you simply serving, just as I am?"

"Be quiet." He doesn't notice Kamukura's hand around his neck until he realizes he can't breathe, and then it's the only thing he can focus on. 

He wonders how smug the smile is, on his lips.

  
  


//

Now getting back home, that's more of a challenge.

It’s the same pathway, of course. But now, he has their groceries folded by his side. A little more exhausting to carry, despite how little it is. He stops on the edge of the road once or twice, sits on the mossy rock he always passes and finishes his water.

(He could try talking to him. But Kamukura rarely actually listened to him these days. Couldn’t remember the last time he actually went out of his way to help him unprompted, couldn’t remember the last time he bothered to fulfil something that was not routine.)

It rains on the way back to the house. 

Something he was sure he’d be able to avoid, would have the time to work around. But, well. It was spring. What more could he do then accept it? He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella. Barely remembered to throw on his jacket, to grab the bag he used to carry their food.

He would survive. It was just a little bit of rain.

(He could... Force him to listen, he supposed. But Kamukura was stubborn. He knew that well, had always had to trick him into listening. And it had been fun, at the time. Finding new, interesting ways to throw Kamukura off enough to hear him out. He thinks that might be why Kamukura bothered to keep him around, originally. Why he’d even bothered to pay attention to him. He was selfish enough to think he might be more interesting than the rest of despair.)

To top it all off, he rolls his ankle. Slides down a patch of mud that has gathered, and takes a fall down the slope.

Just his luck.

He shoves the bag off to the side and curls in on himself, no less frustrated than he was the night prior.

(He grabs at his hair and pulls, and is somehow startled when it doesn’t fall out under his touch.)

...

Kamukura finds him about halfway to their home, just as the sun is beginning to set.

“Izuru,” He says. Stares into the forest so he doesn’t have to look at him.

“You are hurt,” Kamukura observes, as he carefully balances the umbrella between his cheek and his shoulder, “And... Wet.”

Komaeda does not get up. 

“Nagito..”

“Go away,” He says it calmly, "I am thinking,” Nevermind the shake that haunts his body, nor how soaked he’s become.

"I see..."

Kamukura shifts to join him on the ground. The gaze he gives Kamukura is questioning. Uncertain. 

"I will think with you," Kamukura decides, “I have been doing much of that, recently.”

"...You'll be soaked through," as if he wasn't already, "I don't want that to be my fault," Which is honest. Even if he feels upset, even if he  _ hates _ , he does not want Kamukura inconvenienced because of him. He’s never wanted that. 

"I do not mind," Kamukura joins him, cross-legged, in a puddle, "It is unwise for you to be out here alone. So I will stay.”

"..." Komaedas gaze finally flickers from the forests lining the paths. Kamukura also does not seem to be looking at him. Komaeda follows his gaze to the sides of the road, in the beginning stages of flooding, “Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be then…”

They sit in silence for a while. Kamukura sits close enough that Komaeda’s kept under the umbrella, but not close enough that they’re touching. He’s not being polite. It’s the sort of room he gives selfishly, distance rooted in uncertainty.

He’s never seen Kamukura uncertain before. It gives him just a little more bravery.

“Izuru,” He digs his hands into the legs of his pants and grips, “Can I talk to you about something.  _ Ask you. _ About something.”

Kamukura tilts his head, “You may.”

“I- Ah. I don’t know where to start.”

“...Neither would I.”

//

“Have you considered my proposition yet, Kamukura-sama?”

They’re sitting together, when he asks. In a wasteland of rubble and ash, on two boulders that look suspiciously like they were once part of a building. Kamukura is eating, and Servant is not. 

(Perhaps he should. He most certainly has begun to develop shakes. Starving was always Owari’s game.)

“I have,” Kamukura pokes at the contents of his can (some kind of spiced beans, how exciting!) and barely seems to side-eye him, “It seems like a troublesome proposition,” He says, blunt as ever, “You are troublesome. Difficult company to keep.”

“Ah. I do not believe that matters too much. Our goals are what matter. And they are similar, are they not?" 

"They are similar. They are not the same." 

"I am aware" Servant nods, just as pleased with that answer, “I don’t think either of us will find someone that quite understands our beliefs, like we understand eachother. Ultimate Despair still mocks my belief of hope, even after years of working toward despair. Don’t you find a bit of irony in that?”

“Not particularly.”

Fair enough, he supposed. He rubs her hand against his own. The skin is still smooth under his touch, carefully treated with chemicals he didn’t know the name of, processes he was too unfamiliar with to concentrate on, "Allow me to rephrase this. Present it differently, more selfishly. I want nothing more than to serve a master again, as I’m sure you know. As all of Ultimate Despair has figured out. I am not unaware of my own incessant, pathetic needs. It would be no surprise when I fall at your feet. No one would question our alliance."

Kamukura tilts his head up, considers it.

“I may be worthless for most things, however my presence is often unquestioned and unconsidered. People rather freely give me information, you know. I am lucky, like that. It could be beneficial to you.”

“You are offering to spy.”

“I am offering the only thing I have. And in return, I ask for something simple. Obtainable, for someone like you,” He bows to him, not for the first time, certainly not the last, “I want nothing more than your touch and attention. I wish to serve under you. To be shaped by your hands and guidance, in whatever way it may be. Because at the end of the day, we are working towards the same goal.”

“You will keep challenging my word,” Kamukura points out, looking down at him,

“Perhaps,” His whisper is hoarse, and he can’t help but smile at it, “Is that not a game you enjoy?”

“I do not enjoy it,” But there’s the sound of something different in his tone. Annoyance?

“It is unsightly of you to lie, Kamukura. Ah. But, then again, I suppose you do not enjoy anything. Correct?”

Kamukura doesn’t answer immediately. Simply stares down at him, with the same dull look in his eye, “I will consider it.”

  
  


//

Komaeda stares out at the flooding road, "I think I hate you."

He gives Kamukura only a moment to reply to that. Knows that Kamukura needs longer to think of a reply, and takes advantage of that to rush his own.

"I don't know why! I don't  _ want _ to hate you. I don't want- you're all I have. You’re all I’ve ever had. I don’t want to hate you. But everytime you- I mean, you just don’t-” He doesn’t have the words to express what he wants to say, he realizes. Doesn’t know where to go from here, now that he’s spat it out. Settles on, “I thought about killing you again today, you know. I don’t know why. Don’t know what I’d do without you. But it was something that occurred to me- A possibility. That I could do, without repercussion. How  _ nice _ it would feel,” It’s almost a whine. He hates that it is, “At least. Leaving you. I thought about leaving you, despite fighting so hard to stay by your side.”

"I am not surprised," Kamukura’s answer is immediate, upon the time he finishes stumbling over himself, "You never seemed particularly sure how you felt about me, when we first met. I was surprised Enoshima managed to convince you to like me, as well as she had."

But there’s something under his tone. Something that someone that has spent far less time with Kamukura then he would have missed. The slightest change in demeanor, tight and heavy.

“...How does that make you feel,” He asks Kamukura, suddenly, sharply faces him, “The idea that I may very well hate you. Despise you, even.”

His answer is expected, “I do not feel anything about it. I do not  _ feel _ ,” Kamukura closes his eyes, like he’s calming himself, “Do not mock me.”

He takes a long breath in, “Izuru, with all due respect-” He’s speaking before he realizes it, sharp and bitter and words tight on his tongue, “With all due  _ respect _ , I think you feel more than you’re letting on. I think that you always have.”

“...” Kamukura’s brow furrows together.

“You’re  _ angry _ ,” He guesses.

“I am not,”

“Annoyed,”

“I am  _ not _ ,” 

“Please just be  _ honest _ with me.”

“I do not  _ know _ how I feel,” Kamukura answers, suddenly, sharply, harsh, “And I am uncertain about not knowing how I feel. Does that satisfy you? Is that enough?”

“Oh. Okay,” Komaeda takes a breath in. And for a moment, he feels a little star struck, “ _ Okay _ . That's something,” More than he expected. Far more than he expected to get out of this conversation. Almost pathetically, the anger he's felt over the last few days coils and spits in on itself, collapses like dirt has been placed over a fire. He still feels alone. Like he’s sitting in a hospital bed, waiting for a nurse that cares for him out of obligation. But he was never angry at that nurse. Because something was better than nothing, and he’s just been given something.

He wonders if Kamukura knows that. Is just using that to get him to stop.

Kamukura’s shoulders are tense. Square, in a way he recognizes as apprehension. Despite lashing out, he’s still holding his breath. 

Komaeda can’t say he isn’t doing the same.

"I don't think I'm happy anymore," He whispers into his hands, “I don’t know if you care about me. You’ve never told me- I mean. I know you aren’t very vocal. That you aren’t the sort to say your feelings. Perhaps not even understand them? That's… fine, I understand that. But there are times that I just don’t know what you’re thinking, or why you’re thinking it. It feels like you- keep things from me. Like I have to use underhanded means to figure out what you’re thinking,” His breathing is heavier, now that he’s talking. Panicked, “You say you don’t want a servant but then you still order me around like one. We’re using first names but we don’t- You don’t. Touch me. You haven’t approached me, have  _ never _ , approached me.“

“...”

"I wish you'd talk to me. ” He tells him, “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

"...I," Kamukura starts. Stops. And this time, with far less ire, "I just told you. I do not know how."

“What?” 

"I do not know how. That is straight forward, is it not?” Kamukura is still. The air around his words is tense enough to cut.

"You talk to me," Komaeda tilts his head, "I would argue that you love to hear your own opinions. About... your talents. When they come up. And- your views.”

"About my talents," Kamukura echos, hollow. And then, with a sudden amount of venom, "My  _ views _ . That is what I am. It is easy to talk about what I have been trained to be. I  _ am _ my talents. My words. My body. None of it is my own. I try to talk, to conceptualize myself, and find that I cannot. I try to articulate and I am stopped. I cannot have hobbies. I cannot  _ enjoy _ things. I was created not to be. And it seems- It seems as though I am  _ incapable _ of caring. I am my talents. I think that is all I am meant to be."

Kamukura’s breathing is heavy.

He can’t think of a time Kamukura has brought up something on his own. Not off the top of his head. Maybe with some digging.

“That bothers you,” Komaeda realizes. Then, with some amount of relief, “It bothers you? It bothers you.”

“I do not know if it bothers me,” Kamukura says, and grips at the edge of his pants, “You seem pleased by this.”

“I did not think you could be  _ bothered _ ,” Komaeda admits, “Well, perhaps by Enoshima. By myself, and despair. But..” 

He’s sort of realizing how foolish the thought is, as he says it.

Kamukura’s grip on the umbrella is with practiced precision. Not tight enough to reveal anything, but not light enough to be thoughtless. It’s a spectacle. Something he’s not supposed to question or notice, and something he’s never bothered to before. 

“I have a theory, if you are willing to humor me,” Komaeda tells him, passion suddenly lighting his voice.

“I suppose.”

“I think you were created to be emotionless. I wouldn’t argue with that,” Komaeda closes his eyes, “I think that's what they wanted. But I don’t think they succeeded.”

Kamukura narrows his eyes at him.

“It  _ bothers _ you, that I might hate you. That something- Some _ one _ you’ve  _ wasted _ your talents on might actually end up despising you. I am yours, entirely. You have owned me. Not from the day you carved your name into my collar, but from the day we met. You know what you do to me, and it bothers you that  _ maybe _ , you could be wrong,” Komaeda pulls himself back up and into the rain, falls back down when he remembers he’s hurt, “That all of that was for nothing.”

“It was only logical,” Kamukura tells him, “To take care of what is mine. And you’re mine.”

And normally, that would put a stop to his thoughts. Normally, he would accept that, would try not to think anything more of it. But he’s had time to think, over the last few days. Has had to attempt to rationalize, and consider. And when he considers it, he wants to know more, “Why am I yours?”

“I do not understand?”

“Why did you choose me? Surely, you could have picked someone better. Someone you did not need to take care of, or invest so much time in.”

“It was assurance,” Kamukura tells him, “Ultimate Despair's loyalty is generally fleeting, and uncertain. You pushed, and proved yourself.” 

“So? Surely a detail so small would not matter to you,” Komaeda leans closer, rests a hand on his chin, “Why did it matter to you? You could have gotten information far easier. You didn’t have to keep me after I left. Even now, you just said it yourself. You thought I hated you, despite my worship-”

“You proved to be a  _ challenge _ ,” Kamukura interrupts him, “I know what the rest of despair feels. Even if I do not understand it. They had always feared me, saw me as something useful. But your feelings are more complex. Harder to unpack. Interesting.”

“And despite saying that you believe I hate you, it’s a thought that hurts. Not because you could be wrong, but because I would be no different than the rest of Despair.”

“Even now, you give me... pleasure,” And suddenly, he is quiet. Almost drowned out by the rain, “Even after I’ve broken you, you still remain a fascination.”

Komaeda lets Kamukura mumble to himself. Long enough to collect his thoughts. 

“I think... I think your logic is dictated by emotions. More than you want to accept,” Komaeda grins, but it’s not meant to be a kind one. It’s victory. He understands something more than Kamukura, better than, “I don’t think an emotionless man can feel boredom. I don’t think an emotionless man could feel  _ annoyance _ . I don’t think there’s a talent for understanding emotions, so you get lost, and because you’re lost, you discredit it as unnecessary.”

And Kamukura, for all his stubbornness, plays along, “...So what do you believe that makes me.”

“Human. Damaged. Selfish, really. Just like me. Just like everyone else. Perhaps it’s presumptuous of me to say. But I’ve been beginning to think of you less as. Hope, and more,  _ Izuru _ . And it’s putting things into perspective.”

Even he doesn’t entirely believe his own words. Lying to himself. It’s hard to imagine Kamukura as being on his level, let alone Despair's. But he thinks he might need to hear it. For his own sake. He leans over to push back some of the hair blocking his face from view. He doesn’t ask to do it, thinks that maybe he does not have to. And his suspicions are confirmed when Kamukura simply closes his eyes.

“I do not think you’re right, entirely,” Kamukura tells him, “We are above most others. The world is full of those willing to feed off the talented, and the great. We are the great.”

“Well... yes. I wouldn’t argue with that,” Komaeda tells him, and closes his eyes as well, “Perhaps that creates a contradiction. The world cannot feed off of us, if we are no longer a part of it. We’re sort of like a puzzle. For all of our... our flaws. We click together, on our own separate canvas. And it feels right. No one else is able to connect with us. Would you argue with that?”

Kamukura slowly tilts his head to rest in his hand, “I would not.”

“And puzzle pieces should be kept together,” He says, “We should stay together… no matter what I learn, what you tell me, I’ll stay with you. Because we belong together.”

He looks out at the rain.

“Even if I hate you.”

Kamukura releases a breath, like relief.

“...We’re kind of pathetic, aren’t we?” Komaeda mumbles, reaching out to take his hand.

“Perhaps so,” Kamukura accepts his hand.

//

There's something incredible about being on top of the world, under a sea of stars and barely lit lights. Incredible, an overwhelming inescapability. Hypnotic, the pounding awareness that something far greater than he is just within reach. He woozes on the ledge he stands, but never really falls as he hopes.

“We will have to leave soon,” Kamukura tells him, from beyond his line of sight. Somewhere behind him, that he lacks the focus and attention to currently pinpoint, “We have gained too much attention here.”

“Kamukura-sama,” He says, and for once, does not look at the man in his worship, “I don’t think we can die.”

Kamukura places himself next to him, watching as Kamukura takes a glance up to the stars. Tracking his gaze to almost an exact, under the brightest star in the sky, “Death in an inevitability. Inescapable. Even I will die, one day.”

“But I think we’ll live on beyond it,” His gaze fixates, “Become something greater than. Isn’t that fascinating to consider? Dare I say it, perhaps one day we will even be remembered for being by her side.”

“...Do you truly think a servant can be inherited?” Kamukura asks him, dully, instead of replying to him in turn, “Or is each trained to fit their master. Irreparable, once they’ve been broken.”

Servant freezes. It’s an odd change in topic. But not an unsurprising one.

“I think a servant can be retrained,” He whispers, and decides not to play with theoretics, “I think you could shape me into whatever you want me to be. I think that- I think that you’re particularly stubborn, like that,” Servant smiles, light, and “I think you could break me, should you choose to.”

“...” Kamukura tilts his head up, “I will consider it.”

“You’ve been considering it for a  _ very _ long time,” Servant tells him, “What is it... six months? Seven? At this rate, you might never make a choice.”

“You’re impatient,” Kamukura tells him, blunt-like, and steps up onto the ledge to meet him, “Impatient men gain no reward.”

“Impatient men find ways to get their reward faster, Kamukura-sama,” Finally, he rips his gaze away from the sky, facing Kamukura in a way that feels far too alive. Too eager, for who he is, “How about we decide it with a game.”

The wind catches Kamukura’s hair, frames his face in a way that should not be nearly as attractive as it is, “A game?”

“Well. A bet, really. You like those, do you not?”

“...” Kamukura tilts his head up to him. A sign to continue. A sign he is listening.

“I will jump,” Servant tells him, gestures to the water beneath, “And should I survive, it is a sign I am to stay with you. Should I die, you are free to wander without me.”

Kamukura peers down to the waves, cold and harsh and lit up by the sky, “People have survived greater.”

“You know as well as I that's not what I’m talking about. There’s rocks in the water. Stones by the ledge. I could misjudge, and hit land instead,” He steps closer to Kamukura, grips his tie, “Perhaps the water isn’t deep enough.”

“...”

“Should I survive, I want to work beneath you,” He says this with such certainty, that he surprises himself, “It would be a blessing far greater than life itself. With that much luck…” He feels himself shiver, cannot bring himself to continue.

Kamukura gazes down at the water one more time. He’s close enough that he can see the way the stars reflect in his gaze from all directions. He looks alive, like this. Like he’s very well one of the stars he’s reflecting.

He’s  _ beautiful _ . 

“If you survive,” Kamukura decides, “I will keep you as my own.”

Servant wonders where the lines of worship stop and love begins, “As simple as that?” 

“As simple as that.”

He feels as though the wind has taken his breath from him. That he’s suddenly floating on a cloud, one he can fall through at any moment.

“May I ask one more thing from you.”

“...I suppose,” And yet, despite his tone, he looks interested. Is still staring him down, is still watching him with the same glint in his eye.

“I don’t believe it will bring you much interest, Kamukura-sama. Really, none at all. But we both know quite well how inconsiderate I can be.”

“Ask-”

He kisses Kamukura, open mouth, standing on the ledge of that building. Uses his tie to pull him closer. He feels Kamukura exhale against his lips, feels him touch his hands to his waist. When he peaks his eyes open, Kamukura’s are closed. It’s almost romantic. He could imagine losing himself to the man's touch. 

He has before. 

He’s sure he will again. 

(Luckily, here, now. It’s like kissing a corpse.)

He pulls off the ledge, and takes Kamukura with him.

//

By the time he actually bothers to get up with Kamukura, the sun has long since set. With the darkness is brought a further chill, flashes of lightning, an even harder rain.

Kamukura goes to help him. Pauses when he gets pushed away. 

“Allow me to help,” It sounds like a question, but comes off as an order. He almost wants to kick back. But there’s a pain in his leg that creeps upwards, and he feels just about entirely consumed by his exhaustion, and- 

He reaches an arm out to Kamukura, and allows the man to help balance him on their walk back.

“It’s not broken,” Kamukura offers, after a glance downward

“Still hurts,” He whispers, to be difficult. It’s not too bad, all things considered. He’s been shot and stabbed, has broken ribs and arms and needed stitches up his leg. He’s placed himself entirely in Kamukura’s care before, bleeding and close to death, with trust that he’d come out of it alive the next morning. That even if he hadn’t, he would have been happy to die.

He still might be happier dead, when he thinks about it.

“Do you wish to no longer rely on me?” Kamukura asks him, suddenly, loud enough to be heard over the rain. And Komaeda doesn’t mean to, but he laughs.A quick weeze, and- 

“What?” He asks, sincerely.

Kamukura does not laugh. Komaeda has never seen him laugh. He realizes, with some amount of uncertainty, that he’s never really even seen him smile. He would like to, one day. 

“Do you no longer wish to rely on me?” He asks, repeats almost perfectly. 

“No, I heard you,” He hugs himself, tight, draws his legs in on himself to feel smaller. Hide from the rain. Maybe himself, “I just don’t understand. I don’t  _ just _ rely on you.”

“You do.”

“You- you barely take care of me,” He snaps, opens his mouth. Hesitates, and immediately backtracks, “Ah. I’m sorry. Thats rude. I shouldn’t- You do a lot for me.”

“...” Kamukura side eyes him.

“Yes well,” He breathes out, “What do I know about my own wants,” 

Komaeda sort of feels like crying. He does not, because he cannot. Not right now.

“I want you to help me, Izuru,” He says, and he feels almost as though he’s betraying his own sense of self by saying it, “Not force me to rely on you, but help me out of.. noticing.”

“Noticing...”

“ _ Noticing _ ,” He hisses it out, and this time he can’t help the few tears that do fall from his eyes. Angry, bitter, and heated. Hidden under the drops of rain that still fall from his hair, “I don’t know how else to say it. You notice so much and act on so little.” 

“Hm.”

Kamukura doesn’t nod at him. But he seems to think. 

It’s as good of a sign as any.

//

Komaeda comes back to, vomiting up salt water and bile into sea foam.

It takes him a few heaves to actually catch his breath. Another few to stable the shakes in his arms, or register the way water drips down from his hair. When he wipes at his mouth, he crusts it with sand and muck. When he opens his eyes, he has to blink away the burn of intrusive salt water, licks at his cracked lips.

It is still dark, he notes. Just enough light out that he can see the outline of his arms, lit up by blue. 

Slowly, he sits up. It feels like there are weights attached to his limbs, waterlogged and cold. If he’s shivering, he does not register it entirely, and he makes no attempt to pull himself away from the edges of the tides.

He tries to remember, for a moment, what the euphoria of weightlessness had felt like. Stapled to the back of his mind, the joy that had come with certainty of his own demise.

“Did you pull me out of the water?” 

“Somewhat,” It is only when Kamukura answers him, does he bother to turn his gaze to see him. Has felt his presence from the start, of course. Did not need assurance that he hadn't left. His suit jacket has been laid out to the side, hair is hardening together in frizzy clumps, and eyes are red and sore. He stares out into the ocean without even offering him a passing glance, still as the breeze, “You were floating in the tides. I did not pull you far.”

After a moment (and only a moment) of hesitation, Servant crawls to sit next to him. Close enough be near, far enough not to be improper.

He looks away.

“I survived,” He says, calmly, folds his hands atop his legs, “I guess you won’t be rid of me yet.”

Enoshima was right, he thinks. Kamukura must be hope. Nothing else would lead to him begging at his knees. Nothing else would be so close, yet so unobtainable. Nothing else would be so indestructible. 

“A corrupt Servant for a dishonorable hope. It seems fitting, does it not?”

Kamukura does not reply to him.

//

  
  


Kamukura grabs him an icepack and a towel along with a set of dry clothing and a blanket. He changes alone, but Kamukura comes back with tea for the both of them, and Komaeda curls up to slot himself comfortably against Kamukura’s figure.

It still feels wrong. But he’s easing back into it. 

“I don’t hate you,” He says, dejectedly, traces the rim of his cup with his thumb, “I want to. I want to dislike you, Izuru. But I do not. You’re something special to me. And whether it’s fortunate, or unfortunate... I find that despite the fact that you’re a rather selfish egocentric, I’m in love with you,” Despite his insults, he’s careful to keep a shaking smile on his face, and his tone light.

“I...” Kamukura thinks, as though it’s something that needs to be approached delicately, “Am more sure of your malice, then your adoration.”

“...I’m sorry I’ve put you in a position where you doubt the sincerity of my love.”

“It cannot be helped. It is who you are.”

"Can we start over?" He asks, and hides his face in Kamukura’s shoulder, "Pretend none of this happened?"

"Pretending none of this happened is what lead you here." 

"..." His smile widens, "Maybe. Yes. I suppose you're right," He says, numbly, "Can we change, then?"

"I have always been unsure if I can actually change," Kamukura muses, more to himself then as an answer, “I was created to exist as I am. Unchangeable, and perfect.” 

"You can. You have,” He places his cup down as gently as he can, reaches over to touch the edges of Kamukura’s face, and force their gazes together, “You already have.”

Kamukura’s gaze doesn’t flicker away, “Then that means they failed.”

“You knew that already, did you not?” 

Kamukura doesn’t answer him, and Komaeda does not make him.

“Whatever this is, we can fix it. I am sure of that much.”

“...Do you want to put a name to this?” Kamukura asks, suddenly, straightening somewhat.

“Ah. I wouldn’t know what to call it,” Komaeda admits, “You’re so many things to me. You’re the Master I listen to above all else. The lover I lay with at night. You’re everything I have left after a lifetime of wretchedness and waste,” Komaeda considers it, “Just because we never put a name on it does not make our experiences less sincere. We’re together, after everything. I love you. For all I have hated you, I love you. And that loyalty is not one that will die.”

“...” Kamukura nods, seems to understand.

“Besides,” Komaeda reaches down to grab his cup, “Our relationship is our own. With our lifestyle, it does not matter what we call it. We will have no one to describe it to besides ourselves. It’s ah... kind of pathetic, when it’s put like that.”

They finish their tea together, in silence. He doesn’t have to ask Kamukura to help him back up to bed, because he does so without prompting. When they slide into bed that night, their hands are touching, but their fingers don’t lace. They can feel each other's breath, but linger just out of reach. And it’s not from anger, nor is it from spite. It is exhaustion from their own actions, comfort from each other's presence alone.

It’s the closest thing they’ll ever have to serenity, he thinks. And perhaps it’s just close enough to count.

//

Kamukura takes a blade to his collar, scratches through Enoshima’s name. Light enough that he may not forget his history, but heavy enough to stake his claim. His name lays opposite to hers, scratched in with careful, delicate marks. 

It’s almost artistic, in a way.

“Do you think they will question it?” He asks, marvels at the collar from his spot.

“I do not think they will be particularly surprised,” Kamukura leans over to click the collar back into place. The weight of it eases the lull of anxiety in his throat, even as it cuts into his neck and rubs against his larynx.

He’s wanted, again. Has earned his spot next to a God, and will fight tooth and nail to keep it. 

“Well,” He turns around, takes a knee for Kamukura, “I hope I am as interesting to you as I am useful, Kamukura-sama.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come harass me about this fic, or really anything, hit me up at Mystxmomo on tumblr and maybe twitter like all the cool kids on social media.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [♡☆~island trip friendship simulator~☆♡](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940060) by [t3ntacat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t3ntacat/pseuds/t3ntacat)




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